THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Katharine  F,  Richmond 

and 
Henry  G.  Fall 


HIGHWAYS  AND  BYWAYS  OF 
NEW  ENGLAND 


HIGHWAYS    AND     BYWAYS 

OF 

NEW  ENGLAND 


INCLUDING    THE    STATES    OF 

MASSACHUSETTS 

NEW  HAMPSHIRE 

RHODE  ISLAND 

CONNECTICUT 

VERMONT 

AND 

MAINE 


WRITTEN     AND 
ILLUSTRATED    BY 

CLIFTON    JOHNSON 


Published  by    THE     MACMILLAN     COMPANY 
New  York  McM.xr 

LONDON:     MACMILLAN  AND  co.,  LIMITED 


Copyright,  191 5 

by  the  Macmillan  Company. 

Set  up  and  electrotyped 
Published  November,  191  S 


AMERICAN" 
HIGHWAYS  AND   BYWAYS 


X   E   W     E  N   G   L  A   X   D 


T  /     -."'  -4 
cj  c    J   r; 

Contents 

Page 

I.     In  the  Maine  Woods  i 

II.     Artemus  Ward's  Town  ...        29 

III.  June  in  the  White  Mountains         .          .        49 

IV.  A  New  Hampshire  Paradise  .          .        73 
V.     On  the  Shores  of  Lake  Champlain  .        88 

VI.  The  Village  of  the  Seven  Taverns             .      108 

VII.  August  in  the  Berkshire  Hills          .          .      133 

VIII.  The  Port  of  the  Fishermen    .          .          .      155 

IX.  The  Land  of  the  Minute  Men         .          .      172 

X.  Autumn  on  Cape  Cod            .          .          .185 

XI.  Nantucket  Days            ....      199 

XII.  Along  Shore  in  Rhode  Island          .          .      225 

XIII.  Old  Put's  Country        ....      241 

XIV.  Shad  Time  on  the  Connecticut       .          .255 
XV.  Glimpses  of  Life             ....      282 


VII 


Illustrations 

The  Fish  Story         .....  Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

The  Indian  Island  Ferry            .....  7 

Ready  for  Game      .......  14 

Breakfast  Preparations     ......  22 

Artemus  Ward's  Old  Home       .....  29 

The  Village  School             ......  32 

A  Vernal  Roadway            ......  43 

The  Flume      ........  50 

The  Old  Tip-top  House    ......  59 

The  Presidential  Range  from  Bretton  Woods       .          .  66 

The  Toll-gate  at  the  Entrance  to  the  Bridge        .          .  75 

The  Fisherman         .......  82 

Old-time  Natives     .......  87 

The  Waterside — Lake  Champlain       ....  91 

At  Work  in  the  Garden    ......  98 

A  Rugged  Bit  of  Shore     ......  102 

Washing-day             .......  109 

A  Colonial  Pulpit     .  .          .  .  .          .  .112 

Capturing  Bees        .......  120 

At  the  Door  of  a  Country  Store          ....  133 

A  Nook  Among  the  Hills            .....  139 

Harvest  Time           .......  146 

The  Foreign-looking  Main  Street       .          .           .  155 

The  Harbor  162 


'x  Illustrations 

Cleaning  Fish           .......  167 

The  Lexington  Minute  Man 172 

Where  the  Battle  Was  Fought  at  Concord  Bridge          .  177 
Old  Stone  Fences  that  Served  to  Shelter  the  Attacking 

Farmers             .......  182 

A  Relic  of  Earlier  Days 187 

Earning  His  Living            ......  190 

A  Glimpse  of  Provincetown       .....  194 

A  Nantucket  Harbor  Nook        .....  203 

A  Cobble-paved  Lane       .          .          .          .          .          .210 

The  Old  Windmill 219 

The  Seaward  View  from  King  Philip's  Seat          .          .  226 
At  the  Edge  of  the  Water          .          .          .          .          .231 

Noon      .........  235 

Making  a  Rug          .......  242 

The  Wolf  Den 246 

Schoolboys      .          .          .          .          .          .          .          -251 

Low  Tide        ........  258 

Comparing  Fish       .......  267 

Shad  Time  on  the  Connecticut           ....  274 

After  Dandelion  Greens    ......  282 

Getting  in  Hay         .......  285 

On  the  Border  of  the  Lake         .....  288 

One  of  the  Old  Folks  at  Home            ....  291 


Introductory  Note 

All  the  volumes  in  this  series  are  chiefly  concerned 
with  country  life,  especially  that  which  is  typical  and 
picturesque.  To  the  traveller,  no  life  is  more  interest- 
ing, and  yet  there  is  none  with  which  it  is  so  difficult  to 
get  into  close  and  unconventional  contact.  Ordinarily, 
we  catch  only  casual  glimpses.  For  this  reason  I  have 
wandered  much  on  rural  byways,  and  lodged  most  of 
the  time  at  village  hotels  or  in  rustic  homes.  My  trips 
have  taken  me  to  many  characteristic  and  famous 
regions;  but  always,  both  in  text  and  pictures,  I  have 
tried  to  show  actual  life  and  nature  and  to  convey  some 
of  the  pleasure  I  experienced  in  my  intimate  acquain- 
tance with  the  people. 

These  "Highways  and  Byways"  volumes  are  often 
consulted  by  persons  who  are  planning  pleasure  tours. 
To  make  the  books  more  helpful  for  this  purpose  each 
chapter  has  a  note  appended  containing  suggestions 
for  intending  travellers.  With  the  aid  of  these  notes, 
I  think  the  reader  can  readily  decide  what  regions  are 
likely  to  prove  particularly  worth  visiting,  and  will 
know  how  to  see  such  regions  with  the  most  comfort 

and  facility. 

CLIFTON  JOHNSON. 
Hadley,  Mass. 


THIS  volume  includes  chapters  on 
characteristic,  picturesque,  and 
historically  attractive  regions  in  the 
states  of  Maine,  New  Hampshire, 
Vermont,  Massachusetts,  Connecticut 
and  Rhode  Island.  The  notes  ap- 
pended to  the  chapters  give  valuable 
information  concerning  automobile 
routes  and  many  facts  and  suggestions 
of  interest  to  tourists  in  general. 


Highways  and  Byways  of 
New  England 

i 

IN    THE    MAINE    WOODS 

THE  lumbermen  have  been  devastating  the  forest 
country  around  Moosehead  Lake  for  a  hun- 
dred years,  yet  much  of  it  is  still  genuine 
wilderness.  Its  solitudes  are  frequented  by  big  game, 
the  streams  are  full  of  fish,  and  the  lakes  abound  with 
waterfowl.  Here  and  there  a  few  faint  trails  wind 
through  the  forest,  most  of  them  of  little  use  except 
in  winter;  and  the  rivers  and  lakes  are  the  chief 
thoroughfares,  just  as  they  were  in  the  days  of  the 
first  explorers.  Even  the  aborigines  are  not  alto- 
gether lacking,  for  a  remnant  of  the  once  powerful 
Penobscot  tribe  has  survived,  and  some  of  its  members 
continue  to  resort  to  the  woods  to  hunt  and  fish  and 
act  as  guides. 

The  four  hundred  persons  who  constitute  this  Indian 
tribe  have  permanent  dwellings  on  the  borders  of  the 
wilderness  at  Oldtown,  where  they  occupy  an  island 
in  the  river.  Access  to  their  domains  is  obtained  by  a 


2  Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

lumberman's  bateau  rowed  by  a  swarthy  Indian  ferry- 
man. The  island  is  two  miles  long,  and  the  land  rises 
and  falls  in  little  hills  and  hollows  that  are  for  the  most 
part  well  covered  with  trees.  It  seems  like  a  bit  of 
Eden  to  one  who  has  come  from  the  busy  streets  and 
noisy  waterside  mills  of  Oldtown.  The  Indian  homes 
are  set  helter-skelter  in  a  somewhat  close  group  at  the 
southern  end  of  the  island.  Among  them  is  a  public 
hall,  a  schoolhouse,  and  a  good-sized  church,  but  there 
are  no  streets  or  roads — only  paths.  Many  of  the 
dwellings  are  little  one-story  cabins.  Others  are  large 
and  substantial,  yet  always  with  a  touch  of  dilapida- 
tion or  incompleteness  as  if  the  owners  had  not  the 
knack  of  carrying  a  project  through  to  the  end,  or  of 
retaining  in  good  order  what  they  once  gain.  The  most 
imposing  house  of  all  at  the  time  of  my  visit  had  a  fine 
granite  underpinning,  maroon  paint,  and  an  ornate 
front  door,  but  this  door  lacked  a  handle,  and  there 
were  no  steps  to  mount  to  it.  Roofs  were  apt  to  be 
leaky,  fences  broken,  and  the  few  tiny  garden  patches 
were  overflowing  with  weeds,  while  the  occasional  fruit 
trees  were  wholly  unpruned  and  dying  of  neglect. 
Everywhere  were  signs  of  shiftless  easy-going  poverty, 
and  the  people  loitered  about  chatting  or  dreaming. 

The  state  looks  after  them  as  its  wards  and  controls 
their  property,  which  includes  considerable  rentable 
land,  and  they  have  an  annual  income  from  this  source 
that  averages  twenty  dollars  to  each  member  of  the 
tribe.  Some  of  the  money  is  reserved  to  care  for  the 


In  the  Maine  Woods  3 

poor,  and  the  rest  is  doled  out  in  the  form  of  orders 
for  supplies.  But  these  orders  are  often  sold  to  the 
whites  for  half  their  face  value,  and  the  cash  thus 
obtained  is  most  likely  spent  for  liquor.  The  sale  of 
strong  drink  to  the  Indians  is  unlawful,  but  there  is 
always  a  low  grade  of  whites  who  will  take  the  Indians' 
money,  invest  it  in  fire-water  for  them,  and  then  help 
drink  the  stuff. 

None  of  the  Indians  are  now  full-blooded.  They  have 
intermarried  somewhat  promiscuously  with  the  whites — 
men  of  the  French  and  Irish  races  being  apparently  the 
most  inclined  to  take  squaw  brides. 

"As  a  class  the  Indians  are  unreliable,"  a  local  resi- 
dent informed  me.  "They  attend  their  church  pretty 
well,  but  it  don't  hold  them  down  very  much.  They 
pick  up  things  when  they  have  a  chance,  and  they  never 
pay  a  debt.  If  one  of  'em  owed  me,  and  he  saw  me 
comin',  I'd  expect  him  to  sneak  around  through  a  back 
street.  Another  thing — you  take  an  Indian  in  a  tight 
place,  or  scrapping,  and  he's  cowardly — don't  show  any 
sand.  They  ain't  got  the  ambition  of  white  men  and 
won't  work  as  hard.  Very  few  of  'em  can  be  depended 
on  for  steady  exertion.  When  an  Indian  works  long 
enough  to  earn  a  few  dollars  he  no  sooner  gets  his  pay 
than  he  lays  off  to  spend  it.  They  take  no  thought 
for  the  morrow,  and  if  they  have  something  for  sup- 
per they  don't  care  whether  they  have  any  breakfast 
or  not. 

"The  old  race  was  better  than  those  of  the  present. 


4  Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

There  used  to  be  a  cannon  on  the  island  that  they  fired 
when  the  village  men  who'd  been  logging  came  down 
the  river  with  the  drive  in  the  spring,  but  they  hain't 
got  the  energy  to  do  that  now.  They're  bright  enough, 
and  there's  some  who  go  to  college,  but  such  don't  fare 
any  better'n  the  rest.  The  college  fellow  ain't  been 
brought  up  to  work,  and  he  soon  dissipates  and  goes  to 
pieces. 

"Yes,  an  Indian's  an  Indian;  but  I'll  say  this  for  them 
— they've  never  had  a  fair  show  anywheres.  Oldtown 
used  to  be  an  awful  rough  place,  and  woe  betide  the 
Indian  who  got  in  a  little  too  much  booze.  It  would 
make  him  pretty  wild,  and  the  lumbermen  would 
'Hurrah  boys!'  and  gather  a  crowd  and  almost  massa- 
cree  him.  Every  one  knows  too  that  the  whites'  treat- 
ment of  the  Indian  girls  wa'n't  what  it  ought  to  be. 
Some  of  'em  was  handsome  as  pictures.  If  a  man  tried 
to  be  familiar  with  'em  while  they  were  sober  they'd 
fly  in  his  hair  in  a  minute;  but  they  were  an  easy  prey 
when  they  were  drunk.  They  have,  if  anything,  more 
of  an  appetite  for  liquor  than  the  men,  and  two-thirds 
of  the  women  on  the  island  now  have  served  time  in 
jail  for  drunkenness." 

The  tragic  element  in  the  Indian  story  did  not  present 
itself  as  I  rambled  about  their  village.  Life  there 
seemed  to  be  particularly  placid,  and  I  found  the  in- 
habitants companionable  and  apparently  contented. 
One  of  the  men  related  with  evident  relish  how  a  woman 
with  a  camera  stopped  to  make  a  picture  of  him  while 


In  the  Maine  Woods  5 

he  was  digging  potatoes,  and  he  said  he  asked  her  if  she 
didn't  know  it  was  against  the  law  to  shoot  wild  animals 
at  that  season  in  Maine. 

From  Oldtown  I  went  by  train  to  the  southern  end 
of  Moosehead  Lake,  whence  I  journeyed  to  the  other 
end,  a  distance  of  forty  miles,  in  a  little  steamer.  Many 
forest  fires  were  burning,  for  the  season  had  been  un- 
usually dry,  and  the  air  was  thick  with  smoke.  The 
sun  shone  dimly  through  the  haze  from  a  cloudless  sky, 
and  as  the  steamer  pushed  onward,  the  land  between 
the  green  points  that  we  were  constantly  passing  re- 
ceded into  a  vague  and  silvery  distance. 

Our  journey  ended  toward  evening  at  a  clearing  in 
which  were  a  small  hotel  and  a  store.  Here  I  engaged 
a  guide,  Pete  by  name,  and,  with  him  to  advise,  bought 
supplies  at  the  store  for  a  week's  canoe  trip.  The  trip 
was  to  begin  on  a  stream  two  miles  away  across  a 
"carry."  Pete  agreed  to  hire  a  team  and  get  his  canoe 
and  the  supplies  over  the  first  thing  in  the  morning, 
but  I  walked  across  that  night.  The  road  was  rough 
and  wholly  strange  to  me,  yet  it  was  clear  of  timber  for 
several  rods  on  either  side  and,  in  spite  of  the  moonless 
gloom,  I  had  no  difficulty  in  following  it. 

As  I  trudged  along  I  presently  observed  a  peculiar 
glow  over  the  landscape,  and  when  I  looked  up  to  dis- 
cover the  cause  saw  that  the  heavens  were  all  ablaze 
with  a  wonderfully  brilliant  aurora.  Splinters  of  light, 
some  single,  some  gathered  in  great  sheaves,  were 
pulsating  weirdly  across  the  sky;  and  there  were  long 


6  Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

streamers  that  now  and  then  formed  in  a  luminous, 
cloudy  nucleus  right  overhead  with  plumes  extending 
away  in  all  directions,  faintly  colored  with  tints  of  the 
rainbow,  and  alternately  flashing  and  fading.  What  a 
wild  shimmering  dance!  and  so  silent!  I  unconsciously 
listened  for  a  crash  of  sound,  but  heard  nothing  except 
a  slight  noise  of  dusky  wings  as  an  occasional  bat  sped 
past  me  in  its  erratic  flight. 

At  a  farmhouse  near  the  river  I  found  lodging  for 
the  night.  Two  men  were  sitting  on  the  piazza  smoking 
their  pipes  and  watching  the  aurora.  "I've  never  seen 
the  northern  lights  like  this,  covering  the  whole  sky," 
one  of  them  commented.  "  I  bet  a  dollar  it  means  some- 
thing— either  storm  or  cold." 

After  we  had  discussed  the  noiseless  celestial  fire- 
works for  a  while  the  other  man  said  to  me:  "Your 
walk  across  the  carry  would  have  been  kind  of  danger- 
ous a  few  weeks  later.  As  soon  as  the  law  is  off  on  deer 
there's  the  darndest  rush  of  sports  in  here  that  ever 
you  see,  all  wantin'  to  hunt,  and  so  excited  they  don't 
know  what  they're  doin'.  They  gather  around  the 
borders  of  the  clearings  waiting  for  the  deer  to  come  out 
to  feed,  and  if  they  get  sight  of  anything  movin'  they 
take  for  granted  that  it's  game  and  shoot  in  a  hurry. 
So  in  the  late  evening  or  early  morning,  when  the  light 
is  dim,  if  you  git  anywhere  near  'em,  they  most  likely 
plunk  you.  Ain't  that  right  Steve?" 

"Yes,"  Steve  agreed.  "Why,  you  know  one  time 
last  year  how  Bob  Eddy  was  behind  a  rock  in  the  field 


>*, 


E-, 


In  the  Maine  Woods  7 

where  we  cut  hay.  He  was  watchin'  for  a  chance  at  a 
deer,  and  so  were  some  sports  who  were  crawlin'  around 
in  the  bushes  on  the  edge  of  the  woods.  Pretty  soon  he 
heard  a  bullet  sing  past,  and  later  a  second  and  a  third. 
Then  he  sensed  what  was  the  matter  and  he  looked  and 
saw  the  fellow  who  was  shooting.  Bob  was  mad  clear 
through,  and  he  jumped  up  and  began  swearing.  He 
told  the  sport  he  had  half  a  mind  to  put  a  bullet  in  him, 
and  the  sport  took  to  his  heels. 

"It's  lucky  that  the  sports  are  poor  shots,  for  though 
they  kill  quite  a  number  of  men  every  year  it's  only  a 
very  few  compared  with  those  that  are  shot  at.  They 
get  nervous  and  their  bullets  fly  half  a  mile  wide  of  the 
mark  as  like  as  not.  But  bullets  ain't  the  only  danger 
here.  Bill,  tell  about  that  close  call  you  had  a  couple 
of  years  ago  down  at  the  river." 

"Well,"  Bill  said,  "it  was  late  in  the  fall  and  the 
river  was  skimmed  over  with  thin  ice.  I  got  into  my 
canoe  and  was  breaking  my  way  across,  and  it  happened 
there  was  an  old  fellow  standing  on  the  other  bank 
watching  me.  Then  all  of  a  sudden  I  fell  in.  I  couldn't 
do  much  but  cling  to  the  ice  and  prevent  my  head  from 
goin'  under.  The  old  fellow  on  the  shore  got  a  boat  and 
started  to  my  rescue  hollerin':  'Keep  cool,  keep  cool! 
I'm  comin'!' 

"It  was  no  trouble  to  keep  cool  in  that  ice-water, 
and  by  the  time  he  pulled  me  out  I  was  so  cool  that  in 
about  another  minute  I'd  have  lost  my  grip." 

At  the  conclusion  of  this  narrative  we  went  indoors, 


8  Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

and  Steve  took  a  lamp  and  picked  up  from  behind  the 
hall  door  a  cap  and  a  cob  pipe.  "Those  belonged  to 
our  fire  warden,"  he  said.  "We  found  'em  in  the  river 
near  where  he  was  drowned  four  or  five  days  ago.  He 
and  his  wife  were  out  in  a  canoe  and  they  upset.  In 
her  fright  she  grabbed  him  around  the  neck  and  so 
kept  herself  above  water  until  he  sank.  At  the  same 
time  she  was  screaming,  and  their  nephew  who  was 
hunting  in  the  woods  close  by  ran  to  see  what  was  the 
trouble.  He  swam  out  into  the  stream,  but  he  was 
foxy  and  wouldn't  go  right  to  her;  for  he  was  slim  and 
light  while  she  was  a  big  heavy  woman,  and  he  knew  if 
she  got  hold  of  him  they'd  both  drown.  So  he  swam 
to  the  canoe  and  swung  it  around  to  her.  She  caught 
the  end  of  it,  and  he  pushed  her  to  shore.  Then  he 
went  and  dove  after  his  uncle,  but  couldn't  get  him. 
He  and  his  aunt  came  home,  and  she  was  most  crazy. 
She  said  she  had  caused  her  husband's  death,  and  she 
cried  till  her  face  was  black  as  the  stove.  They've 
moved  away  now,  but  they  lived  in  a  little  house  just 
a  few  rods  down  the  road." 

In  the  morning  the  air  was  crisp  and  clear  and  en- 
tirely free  from  smoke.  However,  Bill  said  this  was 
merely  because  the  wind  had  changed  and  that  the 
forest  fires  still  burned.  "We  don't  have  as  bad  fires 
as  we  used  to  have,"  he  continued.  "I  remember  one 
forty  years  ago,  by  gorry!  that  climbed  the  spruce  trees 
like  a  race-horse.  It  was  a  damnable  sight — and  when 
there  come  a  gust  of  wind — Lord!  how  that  fire  would 


In  the  Maine  Woods  9 

go!  But  I  sot  a  back  fire  along  a  road  and  kept  it  away 
from  our  place. 

"Another  fire  that  I  recollect  got  goin'  in  some  timber 
land  where  there  wa'n't  a  stick  but  pine  of  the  very 
finest  kind.  The  owner  of  the  land  was  at  our  house 
when  it  started.  He  watched  the  black  smoke  rollin' 
up  and  offered  to  give  Father  a  barrel  of  flour  if  he'd 
put  the  fire  out.  Then  he  went  off,  and  Father  and 
four  of  us  boys  took  some  pails  and  was  on  our  way  to 
see  if  we  could  deaden  the  fire  by  throwing  on  water 
when  a  thunderstorm  come  along  and  did  the  business. 
Next  day  Father  hitched  up  and  drove  to  the  town 
where  the  man  that  offered  him  the  flour  had  a  store. 
The  feller  was  a  drefful  mean  critter,  and  he  declared  he 
wa'n't  goin'  to  pay  for  what  the  rain  had  done.  But 
his  partner  said:  'Let  the  man  have  the  flour.  He  did 
what  he  could,  and  if  God  Almighty  helped  him  you 
no  need  to  complain.'  ' 

I  remarked  that  I  had  come  to  the  woods  prepared 
for  cold,  rough  weather,  but  that  the  present  prospects 
were  so  bright  and  mild  I  thought  I  had  made  a  mis- 
take. "Oh,  no,"  he  responded,  "a  wise  man  takes  his 
coat  and  umbrella  whether  the  weather  is  favorable  or 
not.  Any  fool  knows  enough  to  take  'em  if  it's  bad. 
You'll  have  a  nice  trip;  but  a  month  ago  it  was  all  a 
man's  life  was  worth  to  go  into  the  woods  on  account  of 
the  mosquitoes  and  flies." 

My  guide  arrived  about  the  time  I  finished  breakfast, 
and  we  were  soon  afloat  on  the  stream — a  lonely, 


io          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

sluggish  waterway  through  the  interminable  forest. 
The  steady  dip  of  the  paddles,  the  ripple  of  little  waves 
along  the  sides  of  the  canoe,  and  the  swiftness  with 
which  we  glided  down  the  stream  were  all  delightful. 
But  the  voyaging  nevertheless  had  its  flaws,  for  I 
presently  heard  Pete,  who  sat  at  the  stern,  grumbling 
that  he  had  tipped  over  the  kerosene  can,  and  that  his 
plug  of  tobacco  had  dropped  into  the  spillings  and 
tasted  of  the  oil. 

By  noon,  after  putting  ten  miles  behind  us,  we  came 
to  a  solitary  clearing  where  there  was  a  little  cluster  of 
buildings  with  a  garden  and  a  few  fenced  fields  round- 
about. "The  place  belongs  to  Joe  Smith,"  Pete  in- 
formed me,  "and  he  runs  a  sort  of  hotel.  You'd  ought 
to  see  him.  He's  got  a  paunch  as  big  as  a  molasses 
barrel." 

We  concluded  to  stop  at  Joe's  for  dinner,  and  so  I 
made  his  acquaintance.  He  was  a  vigorous  elderly 
man  with  bushy  white  hair,  and  as  rotund  as  my  guide 
had  said,  but  he  was  far  from  having  the  fat  individual's 
proverbial  amiability.  Indeed,  he  was  as  full  of  wrath 
as  he  could  hold  and  was  constantly  scolding,  and  slam- 
ming nervously  in  and  out  of  the  house.  He  told  the 
several  persons  who  had  gathered  at  his  dinner  table 
that  this  was  the  last  day  his  house  would  be  open  to 
the  public. 

But  his  housekeeper  said:  "Joe  is  not  himself  this 
noon.  He  will  feel  differently  tomorrow.  You  needn't 
mind  what  he  says  about  closing  the  house.  It  will  be 


In  the  Maine  Woods  n 

open  just  the  same.  I  ain't  no  kid,  and  I'll  see  to  that. 
But  I  can  tell  you  I  don't  like  my  job.  No  one  in  this 
world  has  to  take  the  redemption  and  going-over  that 
a  cook  does.  The  trouble  at  present  is  caused  by  some 
liquor  that  a  sport  give  him  yesterday.  Joe  had  eleven 
drinks  before  breakfast." 

When  we  left  the  dinner  table  we  heard  the  landlord 
shouting  wrathfully  on  the  piazza..  Pete  glanced  out 
at  him  through  a  window  and  remarked:  "Joe's  got  a 
voice  like  a  mad  bull.  I  s'pose  he's  breakin'  the  news 
to  those  two  teamsters  he's  talkin'  with." 

At  that  instant  the  fat  landlord  delivered  a  sudden 
blow  with  his  fist  that  knocked  one  of  the  teamsters  off 
the  piazza  and  landed  him  full  length  on  the  ground. 
The  man's  pipe  flew  from  his  mouth,  and  some  money 
he  had  in  his  hand  was  scattered  all  around.  But  he 
was  not  hurt  and  was  soon  on  his  feet.  Joe  stamped 
and  threw  a  piazza,  chair  onto  the  woodpile.  My  guide 
and  I  betook  ourselves  to  the  canoe,  and  as  we  went  on 
we  looked  back  up  the  hill  from  the  far  end  of  the  clear- 
ing. Joe  was  in  the  yard  still  bellowing  at  the  teamsters 
who  were  standing  near  a  shed,  and  his  big  body  and 
white  shock  of  hair  loomed  on  the  horizon  like  a 
thunder-cloud. 

We  now  came  to  rapids,  and  a  continual  dodging  was 
necessary  to  keep  in  the  channel  and  avoid  the  numer- 
ous stones  that  strewed  our  course,  both  those  that 
were  in  plain  sight  and  those  that  were  slightly  sub- 
merged. Pete  did  the  navigating  alone,  here  holding 


12          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

back,  here  pushing  vigorously  forward,  at  times  using 
his  paddle,  but  in  the  more  difficult  places  a  "pick- 
pole."  At  last  the  voyaging  became  so  bad  that  I  got 
out  and  walked  along  near  the  stream  on  a  grassy  tote- 
road  that  was  used  in  winter  for  transporting  supplies 
to  the  lumber  camps.  I  had  the  company  of  a  young 
married  couple  who  had  been  passengers  in  a  canoe 
ahead  of  us.  This  canoe  was  propelled  by  the  Chesun- 
cook  mail-carrier  who  travels  over  a  twenty-mile  route, 
going  up  the  river  one  day  and  down  the  next. 

As  we  strolled  along,  the  man,  gun  in  hand,  kept  a 
sharp  watch  for  game.  Presently  he  addressed  me 
saying,  "Your  hearing  isn't  very  good,  is  it?" 

I  did  not  understand  the  significance  of  his  remark 
until  he  went  on  to  say:  "You  couldn't  hear  anything, 
could  you,  in  case  I  should  do  some  shooting  contrary 
to  law?  Anyhow,  the  law's  off  on  ducks,  and  I'm  goin' 
to  shoot  if  I  see  one  sitting  up  in  a  tree,  even  if  it  does 
look  like  a  partridge." 

After  walking  a  mile  we  resumed  our  canoe  voyage 
in  dead-water  that  sets  back  from  Lake  Chesuncook, 
and  the  lake  itself  presently  came  in  sight.  The  day 
was  now  waning,  and  Pete  selected  a  camping-place  on 
a  high  bank,  where  were  tentstakes  and  the  charred 
remains  of  a  fire.  In  a  short  time  we  had  our  tent  up 
and  a  cheerful  blaze  crackling  in  front.  Pete  then  pro- 
ceeded to  boil  potatoes,  fry  bacon  and  eggs,  and  bake 
biscuit.  He  did  not  stint  in  his  use  of  materials.  It 
was  habitual  with  him  to  prepare  more  food  than  we 


In  the  Maine  Woods  13 

could  possibly  eat  and  to  cheerfully  throw  away  what 
was  left.  Why  should  he  economize  when  the  expense 
was  another's?  He  brought  the  canoe  up  the  bank  and 
wedged  it  bottom  upward  between  two  trees  for  a 
table. 

When  supper  had  been  disposed  of  we  paddled  across 
the  lake  to  a  tiny  settlement.  By  the  time  we  neared 
the  landing  the  evening  gloom  had  so  increased  that 
we  could  distinguish  nothing  clearly  along  the  muddy, 
snag-encumbered  shore,  and  we  were  vainly  trying  to 
find  a  way  to  solid  ground  when  some  one  appeared 
with  a  lantern  and  helped  us  out  of  our  difficulties.  We 
went  with  him  up  to  the  post  office  which  was  a  room 
in  the  ell  of  his  house,  and  we  were  there  chatting  when 
we  heard  shouts  from  the  lake.  The  postmaster  went 
out  again  into  the  night  with  his  lantern.  This  time  he 
returned  with  a  guide  and  two  young  women.  The 
latter  were  to  teach  school  in  the  vicinity,  one  on  this 
side  of  the  lake,  and  the  other  in  a  similar  tiny  settle- 
ment on  the  opposite  shore.  They  were  town  girls  who 
had  accepted  the  positions  in  part,  at  least,  for  the 
pleasure  of  spending  a  few  months  in  the  woods.  Their 
only  way  to  come  and  go  was  by  canoe,  and  their  voy- 
age that  day  had  been  pretty  strenuous.  The  guide 
did  not  know  the  river  and  had  got  his  canoe  down  the 
rapids  by  wading.  Hardly  was  he  past  the  worst  of  the 
rocks  when  darkness  closed  in  on  them,  and  they  had 
an  anxious  time  until  they  saw  ahead  the  lights  of  the 
settlement. 


14          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

Pete  and  I  presently  returned  to  our  boat  and  pad- 
dled across  to  camp.  When  we  went  to  bed  my  guide 
drew  the  blankets  over  his  head  and  never  removed 
them  till  morning.  I  wondered  that  he  did  not  smother, 
but  he  said  he  always  slept  that  way — in  winter  on 
account  of  the  cold,  in  summer  to  escape  mosquitoes. 

The  bruising  the  canoe  had  received  on  the  rocks 
had  set  it  to  leaking,  and  Pete  made  repairs  with  paper 
and  shellac.  Just  before  starting  he  "killed"  our  fire 
by  pouring  water  onto  the  embers  so  that  it  could  by 
no  chance  spread  into  the  woodland.  This  he  did  every- 
where we  built  a  fire,  whether  at  our  night  camping- 
place,  or  where  we  stopped  for  our  noon  lunch.  The 
precaution  was  taken  not  entirely  out  of  regard  for  the 
forest,  but  from  a  wholesome  fear  of  the  wardens,  who, 
if  they  discovered  a  neglected  campfire  of  his,  even  if 
he  had  only  left  it  intending  to  come  back  in  five 
minutes,  would  take  away  his  license  as  a  guide  and 
send  him  out  of  the  woods. 

For  several  miles  we  journeyed  very  comfortably  up 
a  broad  arm  of  the  lake,  and  the  channel  came  to  an 
abrupt  end  in  a  floating  tangle  of  stumps  and  dead  trees. 
Careful  search  revealed  indications  that  other  boats 
had  crowded  and  chopped  a  way  through  this  debris. 
So,  sometimes  pausing  to  use  our  ax,  sometimes  stand- 
ing on  the  drift  and  tugging  at  the  canoe,  sometimes  in 
the  boat  pushing  along  with  our  paddles  we  gradually 
worked  our  way  to  a  muddy  landing.  Here  was  a  short 
carry  to  a  stream  called  the  Umbazookskus.  Its  name 


Readv  for  game 


In  the  Maine  Woods  15 

is  the  only  big  thing  about  it,  for  it  is  a  mere  brook, 
swift,  crooked,  and  encumbered  with  boulders.  Pete 
waded  and  pushed  the  boat  before  him  while  I  tramped 
a  trail  in  the  towering  unmolested  forest.  Often  the 
path  led  through  a  sober  twilight  of  evergreen  woods 
where  tresses  of  gray  moss  hung  from  the  dead  limbs. 

At  length  we  reached  Umbazookskus  Lake  and  pad- 
dled across  it  to  a  clearing  in  which  a  summer  resident 
had  a  log  cabin.  Another  carry  was  now  necessary — 
this  time  two  miles  long,  but  the  owner  of  the  cabin  had 
no  desire  to  have  strangers  linger  on  his  premises,  and 
for  a  moderate  remuneration  he  was  ready  to  supply  a 
man  and  team  to  facilitate  their  progress  to  other 
regions.  The  conveyance  on  which  we  bestowed  our- 
selves amid  our  belongings  was  a  heavy  logging  wagon, 
and  the  road  was  deeply  rutted  and  boggy.  At  inter- 
vals we  splashed  through  pools  of  water,  and  there  were 
frequent  rocks  over  which  we  bumped  with  a  violence 
calculated  to  addle  one's  brains.  Now  and  then,  too, 
we  had  a  jig  over  a  stretch  of  corduroy. 

It  was  a  relief  to  embark  once  more,  even  though  we 
were  traversing  Mud  Pond,  which  was  decidedly  more 
mud  than  pond;  for  there  was  only  a  skimming  of 
water  with  black  ooze  beneath.  Through  this  we 
pushed  by  main  force,  and  on  arriving  at  the  other 
shore  I  resumed  walking  while  Pete  waded  behind  the 
canoe  down  a  brook  that  he  said  had  hardly  enough 
water  in  it  to  float  his  pick-pole.  But  we  did  not  have 
far  to  go  before  reaching  a  marshy  region  where  the 


1 6          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

stream  was  navigable,  and  then  we  paddled  along  till 
we  came  to  the  broad  expanse  of  Chamberlain  Lake. 
The  smoke  had  come  on  thick  again,  and  the  dim 
opposite  shore  seemed  twenty  miles  away. 

Pete  said  it  was  time  to  camp,  but  when  I  demurred 
he  agreed  to  push  on,  though  with  a  reminder  that  most 
guides  would  not  be  so  obliging.  In  particular  he  men- 
tioned one  of  the  crack  guides  and  affirmed:  "If  you 
had  him  he'd  have  stopped  at  Mud  Pond,  and  you 
couldn't  have  got  him  to  go  any  farther,  nohow.  But 
then,  Dave  is  the  balkiest  man  God  ever  made,  and 
that's  a  fact." 

Another  half  dozen  miles  took  us  to  the  banks  of  the 
Allegash,  where  we  landed  and  prepared  to  pitch  our 
tent  just  as  the  sun  disappeared  low  in  the  western 
smoke. 

In  the  morning  the  smoke  had  once  more  blown  off, 
and  the  air  was  keen  and  clear.  When  we  started  on 
our  day's  voyaging  we  turned  southward  and  sped 
swiftly  along  urged  forward  by  a  gale  of  wind.  Once  in 
a  while  a  little  slop  of  water  came  over  the  side  of  the 
canoe  from  the  crest  of  a  wave.  In  our  rear  the  deep 
indigo  of  the  lake  surface  dappled  with  whitecaps  and 
streaked  with  foam  looked  positively  ugly.  The  canoe 
made  long  leaps  down  the  incline  of  each  successive 
wave,  and  the  experience  was  very  exhilarating — per- 
haps the  more  so  for  its  spice  of  danger. 

About  a  dozen  miles  from  our  starting-point  we 
escaped  the  worst  of  the  wind  by  passing  through  a 


In  the  Maine  Woods  17 

broad  outlet  into  little  Lake  Tclosmic,  and  we  kept 
steadily  on  until  we  camped  at  the  far  end  of  Webster 
Lake  for  the  night. 

As  I  was  gathering  driftwood  for  our  fire  that  evening 
I  heard  a  splashing  in  the  water  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
distant,  and  when  I  looked  in  that  direction  I  saw  a 
cow  moose  standing  knee-deep  in  the  lake  eating  water- 
weeds.  I  ran  along  through  the  woods  near  the  shore 
until  I  came  opposite  the  animal.  She  was  now  only  a 
few  rods  away,  yet  for  a  time  was  quite  undisturbed 
by  my  presence.  At  length,  however,  she  seemed  to 
scent  me,  and  threw  her  ears  intently  forward  and  gazed 
doubtfully  toward  the  shrubbery  behind  which  I  was 
concealed.  Then  she  leisurely  swung  around,  and  with 
many  pauses  straddled  off  on  her  long  ungainly  legs 
into  the  woods.  What  a  caricature  she  was  with  her 
humped  back  and  broad-nosed,  big-lipped  face! 

I  saw  two  other  moose  during  my  trip,  but  their 
tracks  were  common  along  the  shores  of  the  streams  and 
lakes — great  ox-like  imprints,  and  with  them  the 
dainty  hoof-marks  of  the  deer.  I  often  had  glimpses  of 
the  latter  creatures — flashes  of  brown  disappearing 
among  the  trees,  and  on  the  night  we  spent  at  Webster 
Lake  I  heard  a  deer  close  by  our  camp  "blowing." 
Again  and  again  the  wheezing  snort  was  repeated, 
warning  all  the  other  members  of  the  clan  of  appre- 
hended danger.  I  lifted  the  lower  border  of  the  tent 
and  looked  out.  The  deer  was  hardly  a  dozen  feet 
away,  and  a  half  moon  shone,  but  amid  the  darkling 


1 8          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

shadows  of  the  forest  it  was  effectually  hidden.  Soon 
it  went  off,  now  and  then  nipping  at  a  twig  as  it  moved 
along. 

Near  by  was  a  big  dam  that  the  lumbermen  used  in 
controlling  the  water  to  float  their  spring  drives  of  logs 
out  of  the  wilderness.  In  the  early  morning  Pete 
resorted  to  the  dam  to  catch  some  trout  for  breakfast. 
A  stick  a  few  feet  long  that  he  picked  up  on  the  shore 
served  for  a  pole,  and  a  piece  of  red  string  for  a  line. 
He  had  some  good  flies  which  it  was  his  habit  to  carry 
twined  into  the  ribbon  of  his  hat,  and  he  fastened  one 
of  them  to  the  string.  The  trout  seemed  more  inclined 
to  bite  at  that  gay  string  than  to  snap  at  the  fly,  but 
he  caught  two,  and  the  larger  one  weighed  about  a 
pound.  We  had  all  we  could  eat,  and  yet  Pete  seemed 
a  little  surprised  when  I  remarked  that  it  would  have 
been  a  pity  to  catch  any  more.  He  assured  me  that 
most  visitors  to  the  woods  are  seldom  considerate 
either  of  the  fish  or  of  the  interests  of  other  persons  who 
find  pleasure  in  angling.  The  future  is  nothing  to  them, 
and  they  disregard  the  game  laws  whenever  they  think 
they  can  do  so  without  getting  into  trouble.  They 
catch  fish  for  the  pride  of  numbers  and  pounds  of 
weight,  and  when  they  have  taken  their  prey  to  camp 
and  gloated  over  it  they  throw  most  of  it  away.  Truly, 
they  are  "sports"  as  the  guides  call  them  and  not 
genuine  sportsmen. 

We  started  promptly  right  after  breakfast,  and  Pete 
went  off  alone  to  "snub"  down  the  quick  water  of 


In  the  Maine  Woods  19 

Webster  Stream,  standing  in  the  stern  of  the  canoe, 
pick-pole  in  hand,  ready  for  all  emergencies.  I  tramped 
along  a  loggers'  road  which  furnished  a  short  cut  to  the 
next  lake,  and  was  soon  out  of  sight  and  hearing  of  the 
stream.  Once  I  crossed  a  burnt  tract  where  the  trees 
were  all  dead  and  blackened  and  the  ground  was  strewn 
with  charred  trunks  and  fragments,  but  for  the  most 
part  my  way  led  through  the  thick  green  forest  which 
apparently  had  never  been  devastated  by  either  fire  or 
axes. 

When  I  reached  the  next  lake  I  sat  down  to  wait  for 
Pete.  An  hour  passed,  then  two  hours,  and  still  he  did 
not  come.  Finally,  a  good  deal  perturbed,  I  started  to 
follow  up  the  stream  in  search  of  him.  I  wondered 
what  I  would  do  if  thrown  on  my  own  resources,  with- 
out food  or  shelter,  and  separated  from  the  nearest 
habitation  by  twenty  miles  of  rough  forest.  As  hastily 
as  possible  I  made  my  way  along,  sometimes  on  the 
loose  stones  at  the  borders  of  the  channel,  sometimes 
through  the  mud  and  brush  on  the  banks.  The  water 
fretted  its  noisy  way  down  the  ravine,  and  on  either 
side  rose  the  silent  woods,  and  the  region  seemed  as 
devoid  of  human  life  as  if  mankind  had  never  penetrated 
its  sylvan  wilds.  But  at  last  I  was  rejoiced,  on  turning 
a  bend,  to  see  Pete  poling  down  the  rocky  torrent.  I 
waved  my  hands  and  shouted  a  greeting.  He,  however, 
did  not  respond,  and  when  the  canoe  crunched  up  on 
the  pebbly  shore  near  me  he  looked  very  sober. 

"I've  had  hard  luck,"  he  said. 


2O          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

While  searching  for  a  place  to  land  above  a  fall, 
around  which  he  would  have  to  carry,  his  canoe  had  got 
caught  between  two  rocks  in  a  swift  current,  and  the 
bow  had  tipped  down,  and  let  in  a  deluge  of  water.  At 
once  his  cargo  was  set  adrift.  He  contrived  to  rescue 
some  of  the  goods,  but  lost  nearly  all  the  food  and 
tableware.  Our  flour  was  gone  and  our  cornmeal — no 
more  biscuits  or  pancakes  or  Johnnycake !  The  potatoes 
had  disappeared  and  the  eggs.  No  spoons  or  forks 
remained,  and  no  knives  except  my  tiny  pocketknife 
and  a  sheath  knife  Pete  carried  at  his  side.  He  be- 
moaned with  especial  fervor  the  loss  of  his  tobacco. 
The  shellac  and  tacks  with  which  he  repaired  his  canoe 
were  missing,  and,  worst  of  all,  our  matches  had  got 
soaked  so  that  we  could  not  kindle  a  fire. 

After  lunching  on  a  few  half  wet  crackers  spread  with 
butter,  Pete  went  on  down  the  shallow  rapids.  He 
took  me  in  when  we  reached  the  lake,  and  we  paddled 
its  full  length  and  entered  the  outlet — a  crooked  dead- 
water  through  a  swamp.  Low  in  the  west  the  sun 
shone  serenely  from  a  sky  that  held  not  a  single  cloud. 
There  was  no  wind,  and  the  stumps  and  dead  trees  on 
the  banks  were  perfectly  mirrored  in  the  water.  We 
seemed  to  be  afloat  on  liquid  glass.  Ducks  abounded, 
and  when  a  flock  flew  past  us  Pete  lifted  his  paddle  and 
took  aim  with  it  as  if  it  was  a  gun.  "Bang!"  he  shouted, 
and  added,  "I  wish  I  had  one  of  you  fellers  for  my 
supper." 

Presently  we  came  to  a  large  pond  and  began  to  look 


In  the  Maine  Woods  21 

for  a  camping-place.  We  saw  several  promising  spots, 
but  so  far  from  the  water  across  oozy  flats  of  mud  that 
it  was  impossible  to  approach  them.  When  we  reached 
the  extreme  end  of  the  pond  we  were  much  disappointed 
to  find  that  what  we  supposed  was  the  channel  tapered 
down  to  nothing.  On  ahead  were  snaggy  masses  of 
drift — broken  tree-trunks  and  uprooted  stumps  that 
the  wind  had  driven  in  high  water  onto  the  marshy 
lowlands.  The  sun  had  set,  and  the  twilight  gloom  was 
deepening.  It  was  too  late  to  turn  back,  and  we  were 
obliged  to  disembark  and  pick  a  gingerly  way  along  on 
the  drift,  carrying  our  blankets  and  a  few  other  necessa- 
ries an  eighth  of  a  mile  to  solid  ground.  The  journey 
was  a  precarious  one,  for  the  snags  were  thrown  together 
in  a  chaotic  tangle  that  necessitated  much  zigzagging 
and  climbing.  A  misstep  meant  going  knee  deep  in  the 
black  bog.  Our  pilgrimage  ended  in  an  old  tote-road 
where  we  felt  around  in  the  dusk,  cleared  a  space  of 
sticks  and  stones,  and  spread  our  partially  soaked 
blankets.  Then  we  supped  on  the  watery  crackers, 
with  a  little  maple  syrup  that  had  survived  the  wreck 
for  sauce.  We  had  nothing  at  all  to  drink  because  the 
water  of  the  pond  was  too  dubious  for  such  use. 

Our  situation,  lost  in  the  wilderness  without  tent  or 
fire,  was  anything  but  cheerful,  and  I  could  not  help 
feeling  some  anxiety.  Pete,  however,  spent  the  night 
under  the  blankets  as  equably  as  usual.  I  napped  now 
and  then,  but  was  often  awake  watching  the  stars  and 
the  half  moon  that  rose  in  the  east  and  slowly  climbed 


22          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

the  heavens.  At  last  the  stars  paled  with  the  coming 
dawn,  and  I  crawled  out.  My  hair  was  wet  with  dew, 
and  the  air  was  damp  and  chilling.  I  roused  Pete, 
who  got  up  shivering  and  wrapped  a  blanket  around 
himself.  Then  we  sat  down  and  shared  our  last  six 
crackers. 

There  were  no  inducements  for  lingering,  and  we 
packed  up  and  started  back  to  the  canoe.  The  journey 
was  even  more  difficult  than  it  had  been  the  night 
before,  for  the  track  on  which  we  had  to  walk  was 
slippery  with  frost.  We  hastily  embarked  and  applied 
ourselves  to  a  vigorous  use  of  the  paddles  in  order  to 
get  warm.  After  careful  search  we  discovered  that  not 
far  from  the  other  end  of  the  pond  the  true  channel 
made  a  sudden  turn  which  we  had  failed  to  observe  on 
the  evening  previous. 

In  a  short  time  we  reached  Grand  Lake,  and  saw  at 
a  distance  a  canoe  crossing  our  path.  By  putting  forth 
all  our  strength  we  came  within  hail  soon  after  it  reached 
land  and  just  as  its  three  occupants  were  starting  to- 
ward the  neighboring  mountains  for  a  day's  hunting. 
They  advised  us  about  our  route  and  gave  us  some 
matches,  and  we  went  on  our  way.  At  the  outlet  of 
the  lake,  after  navigating  a  series  of  rapids,  we  came  to 
five  or  six  miles  of  the  most  entrancing  travel  we  had 
experienced.  The  water  was  very  swift,  sometimes 
slipping  along  smoothly,  sometimes  breaking  into 
rippling  shallows  where  we  had  to  choose  our  course 
carefully  and  dodge  among  the  slightly  submerged 


In  the  Maine  Woods  23 

boulders.  It  was  the  perfection  of  motion — that  slide 
down  hill  on  the  clear  water. 

We  were  hemmed  in  by  wooded  shores  where  were 
evergreens  and  birches,  mingled  with  maples  that  were 
beginning  to  flash  with  autumn  gold  and  scarlet.  The 
kingfishers  were  always  flitting  from  bank  to  bank,  and 
we  saw  two  or  three  great  long-legged  cranes  go  flapping 
away.  Once  we  heard  a  strange  keen  cry  repeated 
again  and  again,  and  were  puzzled  to  know  what  crea- 
ture produced  it.  Then  an  enormous,  broad-winged 
bird  sprang  up  from  the  weeds  on  the  bank  near  which 
we  were  speeding  and  lit  on  a  stump.  It  was  a  bald- 
headed  eagle.  After  an  inquiring  look  or  two  it  flapped 
down  into  the  undergrowth  and  resumed  its  squawking. 

Late  in  the  forenoon  we  came  to  so  rough  a  passage 
that  I  resorted  to  a  footpath,  while  Pete  shot  down  a 
succession  of  little  ledges  that  have  the  name  of  Stair 
Falls.  Not  far  beyond  was  the  first  of  the  Grand  Falls 
where  a  carry  was  plainly  necessary.  Just  above  it  we 
unloaded  and  drew  out  the  canoe,  and  spread  the  things 
wet  in  yesterday's  wreck  to  dry  in  the  warm  sunshine. 
Pete  started  a  fire,  and  we  looked  over  our  remaining 
eatables  which  consisted  of  a  chunk  of  pork,  another  of 
bacon,  a  little  butter  and  tea,  and  a  can  each  of  pine- 
apple, beans,  and  succotash.  We  decided  to  dine  on  the 
beans,  and  as  Pete  had  left  his  hunting-knife  somewhere 
during  the  morning  we  opened  the  can  with  his  ax  and 
hammer.  For  spoons  we  used  the  covers  of  two  tin 
boxes. 


24          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

There  was  a  bad  tear  in  the  canvas  of  the  canoe,  and 
Pete  found  a  piece  of  cedar  in  the  driftwood,  cut  out 
some  pegs  with  my  knife,  and  using  his  awl  and  hammer 
mended  the  break.  Then  he  heated  some  lumps  of  tar 
which  he  pulled  from  an  old  bateau  stranded  on  the 
shore,  and  applied  the  sticky  stuff  to  the  edges  of  the 
tear  and  other  weak  spots. 

By  and  by  we  packed  up  and  lugged  our  truck  down 
to  quieter  water.  One  fall  succeeded  another  with 
short  stretches  of  paddling  between,  and  we  had  a 
toilsome  afternoon.  Pete  had  an  especially  hard  task 
carrying  the  canoe  balanced  on  his  head  and  shoulders 
along  the  rocky,  brushy  path,  and  when  we  came  to 
the  fourth  fall  he  decided  to  launch  the  canoe  just 
below  the  worst  of  the  drop  and  shoot  the  rest  of  the 
way.  The  stream  here  narrowed  to  a  wild  rush  of 
tangled  currents  and  foaming  waves  between  steep, 
ragged  cliffs.  I  was  loth  to  have  him  undertake  the 
boisterous  voyage;  but  he  was  not  to  be  deterred,  and 
after  putting  a  rock  in  the  bow  for  ballast  he  started, 
leaving  the  baggage  on  the  bank.  To  see  that  frail 
boat  contending  with  the  torrent,  dashed  this  way  and 
that,  and  making  frenzied  leaps  of  half  its  length  amid 
the  foam  was  enough  to  cause  a  man's  hair  to  stand  on 
end. 

However,  it  went  through  safely,  and  we  got  our 
things  into  it  and  once  more  went  sliding  along  on  the 
gentle  but  swift  declivities  of  the  stream  until  we  came 
to  the  fifth  fall.  Here,  on  a  low,  rocky  outjut  of  the 


In  the  Maine  Woods  25 

shore  in  a  little  group  of  pines  and  birches,  we  found 
an  idyllic  stopping-place  for  the  night.  We  picked  up 
some  dry  sticks,  pulled  a  few  loose  shreds  of  bark  from 
a  big  birch  for  kindling,  and  soon  had  a  fire  brightly 
blazing.  Next  we  got  the  tent  up,  spread  our  bedding 
beneath  it  on  a  carpet  of  pine  needles,  and  then  supped 
on  succotash  and  bacon  with  a  dessert  of  pineapple. 
Later  we  lay  by  the  fire  for  a  while,  enjoying  the  cozi- 
ness  of  our  retreat,  but  retired  early  to  bed  with  the 
music  of  the  waterfall  to  lull  us  to  sleep. 

In  the  morning,  after  breakfast,  Pete  investigated 
the  watery  declivity  below  us  and  concluded  he  could 
navigate  it.  So  he  loaded  the  canoe  and  started,  and  I 
watched  his  swift  course  down  the  rude  torrent.  Sud- 
denly the  canoe  hit  some  obstruction,  swerved  around 
sidewise  on  the  verge  of  a  ledge  and  went  over  bottom 
upward.  It  disappeared  and  Pete  with  it  in  the  tum- 
bled and  frothy  waters,  and  I  had  doubts  if  I  should 
ever  see  him  again  alive  and  whole. 

With  all  haste  I  ran  along  the  dew-wet  path  in  the 
alder  bushes  till  I  came  opposite  the  scene  of  the 
catastrophe.  Happily  Pete  had  survived,  and  there  he 
was  out  in  mid-river  on  a  submerged  boulder  turning 
his  canoe  right  side  up.  That  done,  he  waded  to  shore 
with  it.  His  hat  was  gone  and  all  of  our  belongings  that 
had  been  in  the  boat  except  the  pick-pole  and  tent.  He 
at  once  got  into  the  canoe  and  went  in  pursuit  of  the 
missing  things,  most  of  which  he  recovered  along  the 
borders  of  a  pebbly  island  below  the  fall.  Our  worst 


26          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

losses  were  the  bag  of  cooking  utensils,  the  ax  and  ham- 
mer, and  the  tin  cup  and  sponge  we  used  for  bailing. 

On  the  bank,  near  where  I  rejoined  Pete,  was  a  little 
shack,  such  as  is  found  at  frequent  intervals  on  these 
forest  streams,  built  for  shelter  by  the  watchers  of  the 
spring  log  drives.  It  was  mainly  of  bark  with  a  bed  of 
twigs  inside.  Pete's  teeth  were  chattering,  and  in  order 
to  warm  and  dry  himself  he  set  fire  to  the  shack.  I 
furnished  the  matches,  for  I  had  taken  the  precaution 
to  carry  in  my  pocket  some  of  those  we  had  been  given  the 
previous  day.  Pete  began  to  get  off  his  outer  garments 
and  was  hanging  them  to  dry  before  the  crackling 
flames  when  we  were  startled  by  two  sharp  explosions 
from  the  fire  which  roused  the  echoes  in  the  quiet  valley. 

I  promptly  made  a  dash  for  the  big  timber,  and  Pete 
came  close  behind.  Our  alarm  had  been  occasioned  by 
a  couple  of  dynamite  caps,  but  we  were  by  no  means 
certain  that  an  explosion  of  dynamite  itself  would  not 
follow  and  blow  us  out  of  existence.  However,  we 
gradually  recovered  from  our  fears  and  returned  to 
the  fire.  By  and  by  Pete  put  on  the  dryest  of  his  gar- 
ments and  my  coat,  and  we  resumed  our  voyaging. 
Then  came  many  miles  of  beautiful  canoeing  in  the 
perfect  calm  of  a  sunny  September  morning  between 
shores  where  the  trees  and  undergrowth  were  almost 
tropical  in  their  dense  rank  masses  of  foliage,  and  on  a 
stream  whose  strong  gliding  current  carried  us  with 
swift  ease  down  its  never-ending  incline. 

Pete  wound  a  blue  handkerchief  around  his  head  to 


In  the  Maine  Woods  27 

take  the  place  of  his  lost  hat,  and  he  removed  his  shoes 
and  stockings  to  let  them  dry  a  little.  But  that  gave 
the  flies  a  chance  at  him,  and  he  complained  that  they 
would  "chew  a  man's  leg  off." 

Toward  noon  we  came  to  a  dwelling  on  a  knoll  in  a 
clearing.  We  landed  and  found  two  men  in  charge  of 
the  place,  which  served  in  a  small  way  for  a  loggers' 
camp  and  a  shelter  for  sportsmen.  They  supplied  us 
with  a  few  biscuits  and  doughnuts  and  a  tin  cup  full  of 
beans.  These  things  enabled  us  to  make  our  lunch  that 
day  a  feast. 

By  evening  we  reached  the  railroad  and  the  end  of 
our  voyage,  and  I  went  on  by  train  to  a  populous  mill 
village.  But  though  I  had  parted  from  my  guide  and 
was  a  score  of  miles  from  the  wilderness  of  the  loggers 
and  hunters,  the  civilization  even  there  seemed  not 
wholly  secure.  For  about  midnight  I  was  startled  by  a 
terrific  bellowing  close  at  hand  outside  of  the  hotel. 
I  wondered  what  sort  of  a  barbaric  demon  had  invaded 
the  town,  and  I  crept  to  the  window  to  look  out.  The 
creature  seemed  to  be  just  around  the  corner  of  an 
adjacent  building.  All  the  dogs  in  the  place  had  begun 
to  bark,  lights  were  appearing,  and  voices  were  inquir- 
ing what  was  the  matter.  The  bellowing  continued  at 
intervals,  and  two  of  the  hotel  maids  and  a  man  servant 
who  were  on  the  back  porch  seemed  to  think  the  animal 
was  an  expiring  cow.  "Do  something,  Willy,"  the 
girls  urged.  "Don't  let  the  poor  cow  die  without  trying 
to  help  her." 


28          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

Willy  crossed  the  yard  and  looked  around  the  corner, 
but  at  that  instant  the  creature  let  forth  a  blood- 
curdling bellow  that  made  him  beat  a  hasty  retreat, 
and  the  girls  could  not  get  him  to  venture  into  the 
vicinity  of  the  fearsome  beast  again.  At  a  window, 
opposite,  was  a  tousled  man  with  a  lamp  in  his  hand, 
swearing  horribly.  He  complained  that  no  one  could 
sleep  with  such  a  noise,  and  declared  that  the  bellower, 
and  the  dogs,  too,  ought  to  be  shot.  But  now  the  beast 
moved  off,  its  raucous  voice  grew  fainter  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  quiet  was  gradually  restored. 

I  learned  in  the  morning  that  we  were  indebted  for 
the  serenade  to  a  bull  that  had  gotten  loose  from  a 
neighboring  farm.  This  episode  gave  a  final  touch  to 
a  jaunt  that  had  decidedly  more  excitement  in  it  than 
I  relished  at  the  time.  Yet  now  that  it  is  past  I  realize 
that  in  some  respects,  at  least,  it  was  ideal,  and  even 
the  dangers  have  a  savor  by  no  means  wholly  disagreea- 
ble in  the  backlook. 

NOTE. — One  can  journey  comfortably  in  an  automobile  over  a 
good  dirt  or  gravel  road,  ninety  miles,  from  Bangor  to  Greenville 
at  the  southern  end  of  Moosehead  Lake.  That  is  civilization's 
jumping-off  place,  and  beyond  is  the  wilderness.  The  lake  has  about 
four  hundred  miles  of  shore  line.  It  is  plentifully  stocked  with 
fish,  and  the  surrounding  forests  abound  in  large  game.  Along  the 
borders  are  numerous  camps  for  the  accommodation  of  hunters. 
A  fine  view  can  be  had  of  Mount  Katahdin  on  clear  days.  From 
Greenville  a  small  steamer  runs  to  the  north  end  of  the  lake,  and 
thence  a  short  carry  enables  one  to  start  a  canoe  trip  on  the  streams 
and  lakes  of  the  vast  unsettled  forest  country. 


Artemus  tf'ard's  <>ld  home 


II 


ARTEMUS    WARD  S    TOWN 

IT  is  always  interesting  to  consider  what  effect 
environment  has  in  the  development  of  those 
whom  the  world  honors.  Were  the  home  surround- 
ings a  stimulus  or  a  handicap?  What  kind  of  people 
were  the  relatives,  friends,  and  neighbors?  What 
influence  did  nature  exert?" 

I  was  curious  to  see  Waterford,  Maine,  the  birthplace 
and  boyhood  home  of  Charles  Farrar  Browne,  better 
known  as  Artemus  Ward,  to  get  answers  to  just  such 
questions,  and  I  had  the  feeling  that  I  ought  to  discover 
in  the  inhabitants  and  region  something  to  account 
for  the  peculiar  qualities  of  his  humor.  The  town  is 
about  fifty  miles  north  of  Portland,  and  a  half  dozen 
miles  from  the  nearest  railway  station.  I  arrived  at 
this  station  one  morning  in  early  October  and  went  on 
by  stage  to  Waterford.  The  air  was  briskly  cool,  the 
sky  serenely  blue,  and  the  sun  shown  without  a  cloud 
to  interrupt  its  clear  rays.  There  had  been  frosts,  but 
the  crickets  and  grasshoppers  still  chirped  and  fiddled, 
though  not  with  the  full  vigor  of  the  late  summer. 

For  much  of  the  distance  the  road  was  through  wood- 
land gay  with  autumn  color.  Some  green  leafage  still 
lingered,  but  for  the  most  part  the  tints  were  of  yellow 


30          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

and  red,  varying  from  delicate  creamy  tones  to  vigorous 
browns  and  flaming  scarlets.  The  wind  was  blowing 
and  making  faint,  mysterious  music  on  its  forest  harp 
and  here  and  there  loosening  a  leaf  and  sending  it 
rustling  down  into  the  undergrowth.  At  intervals 
along  the  streams  were  rude  little  sawmills,  and  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  the  country  has  been  long  settled  it 
retains  something  of  raw  wildness. 

There  are  several  Waterfords — North,  South,  and 
East,  and  Waterford  Flat.  The  last  was  the  village  of 
Artemus  Ward.  Its  name  sounds  unpromising,  but 
in  its  immediate  neighborhood  the  region,  which  for 
the  most  part  is  rather  monotonous,  crumples  up  into 
a  rugged  picturesqueness  that  has  real  charm,  and  that 
seems  very  well  calculated  to  nurture  a  genius.  Lakes, 
ponds,  and  streams  abound,  and  one  of  these  streams 
known  as  Crooked  River  runs  eighteen  miles  in  its 
erratic  course  across  the  nine  mile  width  of  the  town. 
It  afforded  just  the  kind  of  navigation  to  draw  volumes 
of  profanity  from  the  old-time  raftsmen. 

Waterford  Flat  is  a  nook  among  the  hills  fronting  on 
a  body  of  water  which  is  called  Keoka  Lake,  but  which 
formerly  had  the  more  vigorously  natural  name  of 
Tom  Pond.  The  latter  name  was  acquired  away  back 
in  the  days  when  Paugus,  the  chief  of  an  Indian  tribe 
in  the  vicinity,  made  himself  a  terror  on  the  frontiers. 
He  and  his  followers  committed  so  many  depredations 
that  Massachusetts  offered  a  bounty  of  one  hundred 
pounds  for  every  Indian  scalp.  Captain  Lovewell  led 


Artemus  Ward's  Town  31 

an  expedition  against  Paugus  in  the  spring  of  1725, 
but  was  attacked  by  the  Indians  and  only  fourteen  out 
of  thirty-four  in  the  English  party  survived  to  return 
to  their  friends.  One  of  these  was  Thomas  Chamber- 
lain, who,  after  killing  Paugus  in  the  fight,  saved  his 
own  life  by  swimming  across  the  pond  at  Waterford 
and  hiding  under  a  shelving  rock  on  its  borders.  This 
episode  gave  the  pond  its  early  name,  and  the  shore 
where  he  hid  is  still  called  Tom  Rock  Beach. 

One  of  the  wooded  hills  back  of  the  village  is  known 
as  Mount  Tirem,  a  name  supposed  to  have  originated 
with  some  Indians,  who,  in  speaking  to  the  early  settlers 
of  climbing  its  steep  sides,  said,  "Tire  'em  Injuns." 
Another  height  is  Bald  Pate,  so  called  by  the  pioneers 
because  its  top  was  then  entirely  denuded  of  trees,  the 
result  of  a  fire  that  had  recently  swept  it.  Loftiest  of 
all  is  Bear  Mountain,  which  owes  its  name  to  the 
killing  of  a  bear  that  attempted  to  swim  across  Tom 
Pond  from  its  base. 

Waterford  village  is  a  comfortable,  sleepy  little  place 
whose  homes  cluster  around  a  small,  tree-shadowed 
common.  The  houses  are  nearly  all  wooden,  are  painted 
white,  and  have  green  blinds.  It  supports  two  stores 
and  a  church.  At  one  end  of  the  common  is  a  sign- 
board, which  reads,  "  10  Miles  to  Norway."  Other 
places  roundabout  are  Sweden,  Denmark,  Poland,  Paris, 
and  Naples.  Do  not  these  names  indicate  a  sense  of 
humor  in  the  original  settlers  of  the  wilderness  ?  Water- 
ford  itself  has  a  Punkin  Street,  and  what  is  now  Fern 


32          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

Avenue  was  formerly  Skunk  Alley,  and  there  is  an 
outlying  district  called  Blackguard  which  took  its 
name  from  the  character  of  the  people  who  used  to  live 
there. 

I  found  the  village  delightful  in  its  quiet  serenity, 
and  it  was  particularly  appealing  in  the  evening  when 
the  cows  were  driven  from  the  outlying  pastures  to  their 
home  stables  and  came  pacing  along  under  the  elms  of 
the  common,  while  the  cowbells  hung  on  their  necks 
gave  forth  a  dull-toned  melody.  It  was  a  much  livelier 
place  when  Artemus  Ward  was  born  there  in  1834. 
Many  emigrants  passed  through  it  then  on  their  way 
to  the  West,  and  the  stages  were  crowded  with  pas- 
sengers in  pursuit  of  business  or  pleasure.  The  hotels 
presented  an  especially  busy  scene  on  the  arrival  of  the 
stages,  and  the  several  stores  had  a  large  trade  in 
furnishing  supplies  to  lumbermen.  One  of  these  stores 
was  kept  by  Artemus  Ward's  father,  who  died  in  1847. 

For  general  information  about  the  region  I  inter- 
viewed my  hotel  landlord.  "Raising  sweet  corn  for 
canning  is  one  of  our  principal  industries,"  he  said. 
"The  farmers  pick  the  ears  off  and  then  cut  the  corn 
green  and  put  it  into  silos.  They  run  quite  heavy 
dairies,  and  a  man  goes  round  gatherin'  the  cream 
twice  a  week  and  brings  it  to  the  creamery. 

"You'll  find  every  farmer  raisin'  anywhere  from  an 
acre  to  fifteen  acres  of  sweet  corn.  They  commence 
pickin'  along  the  25th  of  August.  The  ears  are  carried 
right  to  the  corn  shops,  and  the  help  is  there  to  handle 


Artemus  Ward's  Town  33 

it.  They'll  husk  a  load  in  a  few  minutes.  The  pay  is 
five  cents  a  bushel.  Husking  comes  pretty  rough  on 
your  wrists.  After  you'd  husked  all  day  possibly  you 
wouldn't  feel  very  much  like  husking  the  next  morning. 
There  are  men  who  can  husk  out  sixty-five  bushels  in 
a  day,  but  I  tell  you  they've  got  to  keep  pretty  busy  to 
do  that. 

"Men  will  quit  a  good  payin'  job  to  go  to  work  in  a 
corn  shop.  Yes,  sure  they  will.  They  earn  considerable 
for  what  they  do,  but  the  net  returns  are  small  because 
there  are  so  many  shutdowns.  When  the  last  ear  of  a 
lot  of  corn  is  husked  they  may  have  to  wait  two  hours, 
without  pay,  for  the  next,  lot;  and  if  there's  no  corn  to 
husk  there's  none  to  pack,  and  things  come  to  a  stand- 
still all  along  the  line.  But  lots  of  people  don't  like  to 
work.  You  know  that,  don't  you?  Every  one  around 
here  wants  to  go  into  the  corn  shops  when  they  start 
up.  It's  a  fascinating  job.  The  shop  is  a  busy  interest- 
ing place  to  go  into.  A  hundred  or  more  persons  may 
be  working  there  together,  and  they  can  have  a  dickens 
of  a  good  time  while  they're  waiting  when  there's  noth- 
ing to  do. 

"Perhaps  the  corn  shops  are  a  good  thing,  but  I 
can't  see  'em  in  that  light.  I  think  they're  a  complete 
cuss  to  the  country  on  account  of  the  way  they  run  up 
wages.  You  can't  hire  men  on  your  farm  short  of 
thirty-five  or  forty-five  dollars  a  month  and  board, 
and  the  worst  of  it  is  they're  so  blamed  independent. 
If  I  hire  a  man  I  want  him  when  I  want  him,  but  it's 


34          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

got  so  that  he's  more  the  boss  than  you  are  yourself. 
Go  to  giving  him  orders,  or  criticize  him,  and  he  quits. 
I  paid  a  man  two  dollars  a  day  this  summer,  and  he  set 
down  half  the  time.  I  was  up  at  five  o'clock.  He'd  get 
out  at  quarter  past  six.  I  had  my  own  work  to  do  and 
I  couldn't  chase  around  to  see  whether  he  was  doing 
his  work. 

"We've  got  an  all-fired  big  crop  of  apples  here  this 
year,  but  I  only  have  a  small  orchard,  and  probably  my 
apples  won't  fill  more'n  seventy  or  eighty  barrels.  I've 
just  sold  'em  for  thirty-five  cents  a  barrel  on  the  trees. 
That  don't  look  like  much  of  a  price,  but,  by  gorry!  I 
think  I  hit  the  mark  better'n  the  feller  who  bought 
'em." 

Early  in  my  stay  I  visited  South  Waterford  where 
Artemus  Ward  and  his  near  relatives  lie  buried  in  the 
pleasant  Elm  Vale  Cemetery.  Their  names  are  spelled 
Brown  on  the  stones,  but  Artemus  in  later  life  wrote  his 
name  Browne  out  of  deference  to  an  old  English  family 
from  which  his  own  was  descended. 

I  met  the  elderly  caretaker  of  the  cemetery,  and 
when  he  found  that  I  was  seeking  information  he  began 
to  tell  me  some  of  his  troubles  with  a  picturesqueness 
that  seemed  to  me  worthy  of  the  region  that  produced 
the  famous  humorist. 

"There  was  a  photographer  here  in  the  summer,"  he 
said,  "and  the  feller  took  soap  and  water  and  scrubbed 
the  moss  and  stains  off  from  a  few  of  the  gravestones 
that  he  wanted  to  make  pictures  of.  Pretty  soon  after- 


Artemus  Ward's  Town  35 

ward  a  man  who  spends  his  vacations  in  the  town  come 
to  the  cemetery,  and  he  see  that  the  gravestones  of 
some  of  his  ancestors  had  been  cleaned.  So  he  pitched 
into  me.  He's  cranky  by  nature,  and  he  accused  me  of 
doing  what  that  photographer  had  done.  I  told  him 
I  didn't  do  it,  but  he  said,  'You  don't  look  to  me  as  if 
you  was  tellin'  the  truth.' 

"Why,  he  was  real  impudent,  and  he  was  goin'  to 
have  the  law  on  me.  I  says  to  him:  'You  have  to  find 
a  man  guilty  before  you  sentence  him  to  death.  You're 
crazy  anyway,  and  it  kind  o'  seems  to  me  you're  talking 
a  little  too  much  with  your  mouth.' 

"'Well,'  he  says,  'whoever  scrubbed  those  grave- 
stones was  a  blackguard  and  a  vandal,  and  you're 
responsible  as  the  caretaker  of  this  cemetery.' 

"'The  town  don't  pay  me  to  watch  this  cemetery 
night  and  day,'  I  told  him,  'and  I  won't  stand  here  and 
listen  to  too  much  of  your  lip.' 

"Oh,  he  don't  amount  to  nothing,  but  his  wife  has 
money — lots  of  it.  He  can't  do  much  domineering  at 
home  because  she'd  call  him  right  down. 

"'I  hope  you'll  go  out  of  this  place  and  stay  a  while 
and  give  us  a  little  rest,'  I  says  to  him. 

"Before  I  go,'  he  says,  'I'm  goin'  to  see  that  you 
don't  work  here  any  more.' 

"I'm  much  obliged  to  you,'  I  says.  'I  been  wantin' 
to  get  rid  of  the  job  for  two  years.  I  wish  you  would 
have  me  discharged,  but  don't  be  too  sure  about  it 
because  probably  your  influence  ain't  very  great.' 


36          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

"That  only  made  him  madder,  and  he  went  on 
tellin'  me  what  he  thought  of  me  till  I  said:  'You  see 
this  grave  I'm  diggin'.  If  you  don't  stop  your  talk  I'll 
lay  you  in  this  hole  and  put  cement  on  top.  I  don't 
s'pose  I'll  get  any  pay  for  buryin'  you,  but  I'll  do  it 
free  gratis,  if  you  don't  clear  out.' 

"He  went  away  then." 

Artemus  Ward  died  in  1867,  which  is  not  so  long  ago 
but  that  people  can  be  found  in  his  home  region  who 
remember  him  distinctly.  One  of  the  village  women 
said  to  me:  "The  place  has  not  changed  a  great  deal 
since  he  was  a  boy  here.  It  is  about  the  same  size, 
there  is  the  same  white  church,  and  many  of  the  same 
houses  stand  around  the  common.  The  old  'Brown 
house'  where  Charles  was  born  burned  in  1871,  but 
'Aunt  Car'line,'  as  his  mother  was  called  in  Waterford, 
had  long  before  moved  to  what  had  been  her  father's 
house.  That  is  here  yet,  a  substantial,  two-story  build- 
ing on  the  borders  of  the  common,  and  it  is  still  owned 
in  the  family. 

"Mrs.  Brown  had  four  children,  but  only  Charles 
and  Cyrus  grew  to  manhood.  Charles  was  her  favorite, 
I  think.  Cyrus,  who  was  about  seven  years  older  than 
Charles,  became  a  newspaper  man  and  was  successful. 
We  considered  him  the  smarter  man  of  the  two,  but  he 
didn't  happen  to  strike  it  so  lucky.  I  remember  he  was 
at  home  here  sick  abed  when  I  was  a  schoolgirl.  The 
village  schoolhouse  was  just  beyond  a  brook  at  the 
north  end  of  the  common.  It  was  an  old  weatherbcaten 


Artemus  Ward's  Town  37 

building  that  at  some  time  had  been  painted  white, 
but  not  much  of  the  paint  was  left.  Inside  were 
primitive  box  desks,  much  hand-carved.  The  teacher's 
desk  was  on  a  platform,  and  its  sides  were  boarded  up 
like  a  pulpit. 

"The  children  came  in  from  the  farms  and  filled  the 
schoolhouse.  They  were  of  all  sizes  from  five  up  to 
twenty  when  the  big  boys  attended  in  the  winter. 
Then  we  had  a  lyceum  with  debates  and  a  paper  mostly 
made  up  of  local  hits  that  was  regularly  prepared.  It 
came  my  turn  to  edit  the  paper,  and  Cyrus  sent  word 
to  have  me  come  to  see  him  and  he  would  help  me  write 
up  some  things.  I  was  glad  of  his  help,  for  I  was  quite 
a  little  girl  to  be  the  editress.  The  matter  we  wrote 
together  was  humorous,  but  I  don't  know  now  just 
what  it  was  about. 

"After  Charles  had  left  Waterford  and  become 
famous  he  usually  returned  every  year  to  spend  the 
summer  with  his  mother.  He  wasn't  very  strong.  He 
was  tubercular.  His  hands  were  whiter  than  any 
woman's,  almost.  They  were  small  and  long,  and  I 
recall  hearing  my  father  say  that  Charles  couldn't  wear 
bracelets  because  his  wrists  were  as  large  as  his  hands, 
and  the  bracelets  would  slip  off.  Father  and  he  were 
great  cronies.  They  were  own  cousins  and  were  said 
to  look  alike. 

"Charles  was  always  funny,  even  in  his  ordinary 
talk.  He  bought  a  house  near  New  York  at  Yonkers 
and  invited  his  mother  to  go  to  visit  him. 


38          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

"'Charlie,'  she  said,  'if  I  do  go  sometime  how  shall 
I  know  your  house?' 

'"Oh,  you'll  know  it  by  the  cupola  and  the  mortgage 
that  are  on  it,'  he  told  her. 

'"Well,  I'll  never  stop  in  the  house  if  there's  a  mort- 
gage on  it,'  she  declared. 

"When  he  got  to  be  well-known  as  a  lecturer  he  had 
full  houses  and  a  large  income,  and  he  would  carry  a 
good  deal  of  money  about  with  him.  But  he  spent  it 
freely.  Being  lionized  as  he  was  he  had  to  live  up  to 
his  reputation.  He  owned  considerable  jewelry.  For 
one  thing  there  was  a  very  beautiful  gold  chain  which 
had  been  given  him  by  the  miners  in  California.  It 
was  so  heavy  that  he  said  he  only  wore  it  in  the  after- 
noon. That  was  his  funny  way  of  speaking." 

Another  contemporary  of  Artemus  Ward's  whom  I 
met  was  a  stooping,  elderly  village  man  who  walked 
with  a  cane.  I  called  at  his  house  in  the  evening,  and 
I  called  early  because  I  had  been  told  that  he  "went 
to  bed  with  the  chickens."  We  sat  in  his  kitchen  in  the 
gradually  increasing  dusk. 

"Yes,  I  knew  Charles  Brown,"  he  said,  "and  I 
helped  lower  him  into  the  ground.  His  body  was 
brought  from  England  about  the  beginning  of  June  in 
a  metallic  casket  all  sealed  and  soldered  up.  The 
casket  was  cut  open  at  his  mother's  request,  and  we 
see  it  was  Charles  inside.  There  was  a  funeral  at  the 
house  attended  by  a  few  of  the  neighbors,  and  then  we 
went  to  the  cemetery  at  South  Waterford.  We  didn't 


Artemus  Ward's  Town  39 

have  a  hearse,  but  used  a  two-seated  spring  wagon,  as 
was  the  custom  here.  By  taking  out  the  seats  room 
was  made  for  the  box,  and  the  driver  would  sit  up  on 
that.  The  others  went  in  their  own  teams. 

"I  don't  know  much  about  Charles  as  a  boy  except 
that  he  didn't  take  to  farming  at  all.  He  never  han- 
kered after  manual  labor,  and  when  he  come  here  on  his 
summer  visits  the  lazy  critter  didn't  do  nothin'  but 
have  a  good  time.  He'd  lay  around  on  the  grass  or  go 
to  ride  or  do  anything  he  see  fit.  It  was  kind  of  a 
restful  vacation,  I  should  call  it,  but  after  he  went  into 
the  show  business  I  guess  he  may  have  worked  some 
getting  ready  for  the  winter  campaign.  He  was  a 
bright,  witty  feller — no  mistake  about  that.  He  had  a 
vein  of  wit  that  all  the  Browns  had.  Cyrus,  his  brother, 
was  pretty  cute,  too. 

"To  get  from  here  back  to  New  York  Charles  would 
drive  eleven  miles  to  the  railroad  and  go  by  train  down 
to  Portland  where  he'd  take  the  boat  for  Boston. 
Once  he  was  going  on  board  the  boat  after  he'd  been 
having  a  little  too  festive  a  time,  and  he  ran  down  the 
gang  plank  and  across  the  deck  and  threw  up  over  the 
rail.  When  he'd  relieved  himself  he  said  to  those  that 
were  with  him,  'It  always  makes  me  sick  to  be  on  ship- 
board.' 

"Another  time  he  went  onto  the  boat  in  the  evening 
just  before  the  time  for  it  to  start.  He'd  been  eating 
hearty  and  celebrating  some  with  his  friends,  and  he 
went  right  to  bed  in  his  stateroom.  The  next  morning, 


4O          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

just  after  he  woke  up,  a  man  who  was  travelling  with 
him  asked  him  how  he'd  slept. 

"'Not  very  well,'  he  said.  'I'm  always  sick  goin' 
around  Cape  Elizabeth.' 

"But  the  boat  hadn't  left  the  dock  on  account  of 
the  weather  being  rough. 

"Charles  was  a  poor  sick  feller  when  he  left  here  to 
go  to  England,  and  he  hadn't  ought  to  have  made  such 
a  trip.  That  wound  him  up  in  the  show  business. 

"We  thought  he'd  leave  considerable  property,  and 
he  did  will  away  a  good  deal,  but  nobody  could  find  it. 
Well,  there  were  roughish  fellers  in  those  days  same  as 
now.  They'd  steal  the  eyes  out  of  your  head  if  they 
could. 

"The  trouble  with  both  Charles  and  Cyrus  was  that 
they  drank.  Whiskey  ruined  'em.  That  was  what 
was  the  matter  with  'em.  I  tell  you  whiskey  is  good  in 
some  cases,  but  I  don't  believe  it  helped  them  fellers 
any.  They'd  have  lived  longer  without  it. 

"You'd  better  see  Mr.  Wheeler.  He  was  raised  here 
on  the  Flat  right  beside  of  Charles  and  knew  him  well. 
He's  a  feller  well  booked  up,  too,  and  can  give  some 
light  on  this  subject." 

The  next  morning  I  found  Mr.  Wheeler  in  his  barn 
getting  out  some  barrels  in  preparation  for  apple- 
picking. 

"I  ain't  any  chicken,"  he  said,  "and  it  is  a  long  time 
since  Charles  Brown  and  I  were  boys  together,  so  I 
can't  remember  as  much  about  him  as  I  wish  I  could. 


Artemus  Ward's  Town  41 

But  I  recall  that  one  thing  he  used  to  do  was  to  get  up 
a  circus  in  his  folks'  barn.  They  had  an  old  crumple- 
horn  cow  that  he'd  dress  up  in  great  shape  in  blankets 
of  different  colors  for  an  elephant,  and  he'd  tell  us  the 
elephant's  good  qualities.  The  cow  didn't  like  it,  but 
the  rest  of  us  did.  The  calves  and  the  dogs  and  cats 
served  for  other  strange  animals.  Charles  acted  as 
clown,  and  he  made  a  pretty  good  one.  He  had  some 
assistants  who  were  acrobats  or  thought  they  were. 

"He  was  full  of  his  fun,  but  there  was  nothing 
vicious  about  him.  He  simply  liked  to  do  things  that 
would  raise  a  laugh.  At  school  he  was  always  playing 
jokes  on  the  rest  of  the  scholars  and  was  a  terrible 
torment  to  them.  Of  course  he'd  get  called  down  once 
in  a  while  for  his  pranks,  but  the  teachers  liked  him. 
Every  one  liked  him  all  through  life. 

"William  Allen  sat  in  the  seat  right  in  front  of  him. 
William  was  a  good  scholar,  but  kind  of  a  sleepy  fellow. 
He'd  sit  with  his  head  bowed  forward  studying.  Charles 
was  forever  dabbling  with  ink,  and  one  day  he  took  up 
his  ink  bottle  and  poured  the  contents  down  the  back 
of  William's  neck.  I  saw  that  performance.  The  ink 
ran  down  on  the  floor  into  the  cracks  under  the  seats, 
and  when  I  was  in  the  old  schoolhouse  as  much  as 
twenty-five  years  later  the  stains  were  still  there.  The 
building  stands  yet  up  here  side  of  the  road,  but  is  now 
a  carpenter's  shop. 

"There  were  fifty-six  of  us  in  the  school  the  last 
winter  I  went.  A  man  taught  in  winter  and  a  woman 


42          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

in  summer.  We  learned  more  than  the  children  do 
now — got  more  practical  information.  I  won  a  book 
once  as  a  prize  for  spelling,  and  I've  kept  it  ever  since. 
The  twelve  or  fifteen  in  the  class  would  line  up,  and  if 
one  missed  a  word  and  the  next  one  below  spelled  it 
right  they'd  change  places.  The  best  speller  was  at 
the  head  of  the  line  most  of  the  time,  and  the  poorest 
at  the  foot.  We  didn't  have  a  janitor,  but  did  the  work 
ourselves.  There  was  a  fire  list  of  the  boys,  and  they 
took  turns  making  the  fire;  and  there  was  a  sweeping 
list  of  the  girls,  and  they  took  turns  doing  the  sweeping. 
When  there  was  snow  we  slid  down  the  steep  hill  that 
was  close  by,  and  in  the  warm  months  we'd  play  in  the 
brook. 

"Charles  wasn't  out  at  recess  tearing  around  with 
the  other  boys  in  their  rough  sports.  He  was  different 
in  his  tastes  from  most  of  us,  though  when  any  fun  was 
on  hand  in  town  he  was  generally  there  early  and 
stayed  late.  We  used  to  have  school  exhibitions,  and 
if  we  acted  the  incident  in  William  Tell  where  the  apple 
was  shot  off  the  boy's  head,  or  anything  in  that  line, 
Charles  was  sure  to  be  in  it.  He'd  play  baseball  with 
us  on  the  common,  and  he'd  get  up  in  the  middle  of 
the  night  to  shoot  off  some  powder  and  celebrate  the 
Fourth  of  July. 

"I  was  out,  too,  firing  off  an  old  gun  I  had,  but  I 
never  shot  a  gun  at  game  in  my  life.  I  didn't  take  to 
that  sort  of  sport,  though  once  in  a  while  I'd  go  spearing 
pickerel  on  the  overflowed  meadow  in  spring.  That 


Artemus  Ward's  Town  43 

was  done  after  dark  in  a  boat.  We'd  make  an  iron 
basket  by  riveting  together  old  wagon  tires  and  that 
kind  of  thing,  and  put  it  on  a  stick  five  or  six  feet  high 
near  the  bow  of  the  boat,  and  light  some  pitch  pine  in 
it  for  a  torch.  One  fellow  would  row  and  the  other 
spear  the  fish. 

"When  Charles  was  about  twenty-five  and  was 
editing  a  little  humorous  paper  called  Vanity  Fair  in 
New  York  I  went  down  there  for  a  couple  of  days  and 
was  with  him  quite  a  little.  He  was  a  good  entertainer. 
We  took  in  the  shipping  wharves  and  the  big  vessels 
and  Central  Park  and  went  around  to  the  dance  halls. 
One  of  those  halls  was  a  room  sixty  feet  square  with 
the  walls  all  mirrors.  I'd  never  seen  anything  like  it 
before,  and  I  haven't  since." 

The  home  of  the  humorist's  mother,  now  called 
"Wheelbarrow  Farm,"  is  owned  by  a  woman  relative 
who  has  this  to  say  of  him.  "He  led  a  gay  life,  I  think, 
but  though  he  sometimes  drank  to  excess  he  did  not 
have  protracted  sprees.  He  was  tall,  slim,  and  bony, 
and  he  easily  assumed  on  the  platform  a  manner  that 
was  awkward  and  made  him  appear  sort  of  green- 
looking.  But  if  you  met  him  you  found  him  genial, 
courteous,  and  charming,  and  his  talk  full  of  witty 
nonsense.  I  heard  him  lecture  once,  and  just  before 
he  began  my  mother  and  I  went  around  to  speak  to 
him.  He  insisted  that  we  should  sit  on  the  stage. 
What  he  said  was  mostly  foreign  to  his  subject.  He 
spoke  anything  that  came  into  his  mind,  and  he  was 


44          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

so  absurd  that  I  nearly  rolled  under  my  chair.  Mother 
said  she  never  laughed  so  much  in  her  life." 

At  the  age  of  fourteen  the  humorist's  schooldays 
ended,  and  he  left  home  to  make  his  own  way  in  the 
world.  For  a  time  he  worked  in  the  neighboring  town 
of  Norway,  and  thither  I  followed  on  his  trail.  As  I 
entered  the  town  I  made  some  inquiries  of  a  man  I 
met  on  the  street,  who  responded:  "Yes,  Artemus 
was  a  devil  here  in  a  newspaper  printing  office.  He 
learned  the  printing  trade  and  contributed  to  the  paper. 
He  was  a  mischievous  cud,  you  know,  and  when  he 
went  to  school  people  thought  he  was  a  dunce  and 
didn't  amount  to  anything,  but  when  he  grew  up  he 
played  to  the  crowned  heads  of  Europe. 

"There  was  a  rivalry  between  the  paper  here  and  the 
one  in  the  neighboring  town  of  Paris,  and  each  one 
always  bragged  about  any  improvements  it  made  and 
crowed  over  the  other  one.  The  Paris  paper  for  one 
while  seemed  to  be  having  much  the  most  to  crow 
about,  and  Artemus  wrote  this  paragraph:  'A  large 
improvement  has  been  made  in  our  office.  We  have 
bored  a  hole  in  the  bottom  of  our  sink  and  set  a  slop 
pail  under  it.  What  will  the  hell-hounds  over  to  Paris 
think  now?' 

"He  was  a  funny  fellow,  Artemus  Ward  was.  Once 
he  was  somewhere  and  got  strapped.  He  found  a  man 
he  knew,  and  said,  'If  it's  not  too  much  out  of  place  I 
wish  you'd  loan  me  some  money.' 

"The    man    was    willing    and    handed    over    what 


Artemus  Ward's  Town  45 

Artemus  said  he  needed,  and  then  asked  when  he'd 
pay  it  back. 

"'Well,'  Artemus  answered,  'I'll  be  pretty  busy  on 
the  Resurrection  Day.  Let's  call  it  the  day  after.' 

"If  he  was  lecturing  here  in  Maine  he'd  refer  to  a 
time  when  he  'spoke  before  a  refined  and  intelligent 
audience  in  East  Stoneham.'  The  fun  of  that  was  that 
East  Stoneham  was  a  jumping-off  place.  It  was  the 
end  of  the  road,  and  the  people  there  couldn't  read  or 
write. 

"But  the  greatest  joke  he  ever  perpetrated  was  the 
will  he  made  over  in  England.  He  called  in  all  the 
nobility  to  witness  it  and  disposed  of  his  property  as  if 
he  was  a  millionaire.  Really  he  didn't  have  a  darn  cent." 

From  a  Norway  lawyer  I  got  further  information. 
"When  I  started  to  practice  I  opened  an  office  down 
at  Waterford,"  he  said.  "I  had  plenty  of  time  on  my 
hands,  for  I  didn't  have  much  to  do  except  to  make 
out  occasional  deeds  at  fifty  cents  apiece.  Once 
Artemus  brought  me  a  boy  that  he'd  picked  up  some- 
where, and  he  hired  me  to  teach  him.  He  didn't  value 
money,  and  he'd  have  given  away  his  last  dollar  to  a 
friend  in  need. 

"When  he  was  at  home  he  smoked  and  strolled 
around  and  joked  with  the  boys.  He  was  quite  a  fellow 
to  lay  abed  in  the  morning — at  least,  his  mother  thought 
he  was,  and  he  wouldn't  have  breakfast  until  along 
toward  ten  o'clock.  Afterward  he'd  get  his  mail  and 
bring  it  to  my  office  to  read. 


46          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

"One  time  he  was  telling  me  about  his  visiting 
Los  Angeles.  'It  was  nothing  but  a  village,'  he  said. 
'I'd  heard  there  was  a  river  running  through  the  place, 
and  I  wanted  to  see  it.  'Twasn't  much  of  a  river.  I 
hunted  for  it  quite  a  while  before  I  found  it,  and  then 
I  was  thirsty  and  drank  it  up.' 

"He  was  droll  not  only  in  what  he  said,  but  in  his 
manner.  Many  of  the  things  he  said,  which  people 
would  go  into  a  perfect  hurrah  over,  would  have 
attracted  no  notice  if  another  person  had  said  them. 
It  is  claimed  that  he  is  the  only  person  who  could  make 
every  one  laugh  in  an  English  audience." 

What  I  had  heard  of  Artemus  Ward's  will  made  me 
desirous  to  see  it,  and  I  sought  the  county  courthouse. 
His  death  occurred  in  England  on  March  6,  1867,  and 
the  will  is  dated  about  two  weeks  previous.  It  is  not 
the  extraordinary  document  that  the  popular  imagina- 
tion pictures,  and  its  most  interesting  portions  are 
these: 

"I  desire  that  my  body  may  be  buried  in  Waterford, 
Maine.  I  give  the  library  of  books  bequeathed  to  me 
by  my  late  Uncle,  Calvin  Farrar,  and  those  that  have 
been  added  by  me,  to  the  boy  or  girl  who  at  an  examina- 
tion to  be  held  between  the  first  day  of  January  and 
the  first  day  of  April  immediately  succeeding  my 
descease  shall  be  declared  to  be  the  best  scholar  in 
Waterford  Upper  Village,  such  scholar  to  be  a  native 
of  that  last  mentioned  place  and  under  the  age  of 
eighteen  years. 


Artemus  Ward's  Town  47 

"I  bequeath  the  residue  of  my  estate  towards  form- 
ing a  fund  for  the  founding  of  an  asylum  for  wornout 
printers  in  the  United  States,  and  I  direct  that  the 
same  be  paid  to  Mr.  Horace  Greeley  of  New  York." 

Whatever  personal  property  the  humorist  had  in  his 
possession  in  England  when  he  died  mysteriously  dis- 
appeared, but  a  few  thousand  dollars  were  realized  on 
his  house  at  Yonkers.  This  went  to  children  who  were 
relatives  in  his  home  town.  His  mother  had  enough 
property  to  supply  her  own  simple  wants  as  long  as 
she  lived. 

NOTES. — All  along  the  Maine  coast  are  delightful  bays  and 
islands  which  attract  a  host  of  warm-weather  visitors.  Notable 
above  all  the  other  outing  places  of  the  coast  is  that  isle  of  enchant- 
ment, Mount  Desert.  Champlain  discovered  it  in  1613  and  gave 
it  its  name,  which  was  suggested  by  the  bare  rocky  summits  of  its 
mountains.  The  charm  of  its  scenery  began  to  win  the  favor  of 
wandering  artists  and  parties  of  college  students  on  a  vacation 
about  1860.  Bar  Harbor,  which  was  then  a  primitive  village  of 
wooden  shanties,  has  since  become  one  of  the  most  popular  of  fash- 
ionable American  summer  resorts. 

The  chief  city  of  the  coast  is  Portland,  which  the  visitor  will  be 
interested  to  recall  is  the  birthplace  of  Longfellow.  The  house  in 
which  he  was  born  was  built  by  his  grandfather,  General  Peleg 
Wadsworth  and,  though  in  the  heart  of  the  city,  has  been  preserved 
as  a  public  memorial.  Twenty-six  miles  northeast  is  Brunswick 
where  Bowdoin  College  is  located  and  where  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe 
wrote  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  when  her  husband  was  an  instructor 
in  the  college. 

In  going  from  Portland  to  Artemus  Ward's  town  the  most  direct 
route  is  over  good  dirt  and  gravel  roads,  forty-four  miles,  to  Norway. 
About  half  way  you  pass  through  Poland  Springs,  famous  for  its 


48          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

table  waters,  with  fine  views  and  pleasant  drives.  A  more  pictur- 
esque route,  but  longer  and  over  poorer  roads,  is  along  the  west  side 
of  Sebago  Lake. 

About  fifty  miles  north  of  Waterford  is  Farmington,  said  to  be 
the  most  beautiful  village  of  its  size  in  Maine.  Here  is  the  home- 
stead where  Jacob  Abbott,  author  of  the  Rollo  Rooks,  spent  his 
last  years.  Not  far  beyond,  to  the  northwest,  is  the  famous  Rangeley 
Lakes  region.  The  chain  of  lakes,  all  connected  by  navigable 
waterways,  covers  eighty  square  miles.  It  is  a  fisherman's  paradise. 
Small  steamers  ply  the  lakes  and  call  at  the  various  camps.  These 
camps  usually  consist  of  a  dozen  or  so  log  cabins  connected  with 
one  another  by  plank  walks,  and  each  intended  to  accommodate 
three  or  four  persons. 


Ill 


JUNE    IN    THE    WHITE    MOUNTAINS 

AFTER  the  heat  and  dust  of  a  long  railroad  ride 
it  was  a  relief  to  get  into  the  near  vicinity  of 
the  soaring  mountain  heights,  serene  and  cool 
and  blue.  The  train  followed  up  the  valley  of  a  little 
stony  river,  and  much  of  the  time  we  were  in  the  shadow 
of  the  adjacent  wooded  hills.  We  passed  through 
several  villages,  and  there  were  scattered  farms,  but 
the  region  still  has  a  flavor  of  the  wilderness  in  its 
abounding  woodland  and  rugged  mountains,  the  piles 
of  logs  or  sawed  lumber  one  sees,  and  the  big  stumps 
in  occasional  farm  fields.  The  cleared  land  is  uneven 
and  rocky  and  does  not  lend  itself  readily  to  agricul- 
ture, yet  there  are  some  evidently  prosperous  dairy 
farms,  and  excellent  crops  of  'potatoes,  oats,  and  hay 
were  growing  in  favored  situations. 

I  went  to  Bethlehem  which  is  higher  up  and  has 
more  hotels  than  any  other  village  in  New  England. 
At  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century  it  consisted 
of  a  few  scattered  log  cabins,  and  the  settlers'  fields 
were  full  of  dead  girdled  trees.  It  could  boast  of  only 
a  single  small  hotel  as  late  as  1865.  Now  there  are 
thirty.  These  and  the  numerous  summer  homes 
harbor  a  multitude  in  July,  August,  and  September, 


50          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

but  the  permanent  inhabitants  probably  do  not  exceed 
a  thousand.  It  lies  on  a  breezy  upland  slope  with  a 
vast  panorama  of  mountain  ranges  rimming  most  of 
the  horizon.  All  the  big  wooden  hotels  had  been  put 
in  order  for  the  summer  inrush,  and  what  with  the 
painting  and  scrubbing  and  other  renovating  they 
looked  almost  painfully  spick  and  span. 

At  the  sunset  hour  when  I  arrived  the  birds  were 
singing  their  jubilant  evening  songs  in  the  village  trees 
and  in  the  neighboring  woodland,  and  I  could  dis- 
tinguish the  rich  notes  of  the  wood  thrush,  the  carolling 
of  robins,  and  the  clear,  sweet  notes  of  the  Peabody 
bird. 

As  yet  few  of  the  summer  people  had  come,  and  the 
local  folk  were  much  engrossed  in  their  own  affairs. 
One  of  the  town's  women  stopped  to  visit  in  the  twi- 
light on  my  hotel  piazza  when  she  was  going  home 
from  prayer-meeting.  She  related  some  of  the  recent 
history  of  her  church.  A  few  years  previous  they  had 
a  minister  of  whom  she  spoke  in  the  warmest  praise. 
He  was  a  preacher  of  marked  ability,  and  a  man  of 
culture  and  character  with  a  keen  desire  to  do  faithful 
work  and  to  help  those  in  need.  One  winter  he 
shovelled  snow  from  the  paths  and  did  other  odd  jobs 
about  the  place  of  a  lone  woman  who  was  ill.  This 
was  not  to  the  liking  of  some  of  his  congregation.  They 
thought  such  tasks  beneath  a  minister's  dignity,  and 
there  were  various  other  ways  in  which  his  personality 
did  not  appeal  to  them.  The  upshot  of  it  all  was  that 


The  Flume 


June  in  the  White  Mountains  51 

he  was  presently  dismissed.  A  while  afterward  another 
minister  was  hired,  and  he  was  given  a  grand  reception. 

"But  I  didn't  go,"  the  chronicler  said.  "They  asked 
me  why,  and  I  told  'em:  'He's  got  plenty  of  friends 
now.  He'll  need  some  later.' 

"Sure  enough,  they  soon  tired  of  him,  but  he  wasn't 
of  the  gentle  sort  like  the  other  man,  and  when  they 
tried  to  get  rid  of  him  he  fought  back.  There  was  a 
big  row,  and  I  told  'em,  'You  people  remind  me  of  a 
man  who  for  the  first  six  months  after  he  married  liked 
his  wife  so  well  he  wanted  to  eat  her,  and  the  next  six 
months  he  wished  he  had.' 

"For  quite  a  spell  we  didn't  have  any  minister,  but 
lately  we've  got  a  new  man.  They  gave  him  a  recep- 
tion, too.  Only  three  went  to  it.  That's  all  right.  He 
might  just  as  well  find  out  everything  is  dead  when  he 
first  gets  here  as  afterward." 

Just  then  the  landlord  came  out  on  the  piazza.  "This 
is  hot  weather,"  he  remarked.  "  By  jolly !  I  was  pretty 
near  petered  today.  I  had  to  drive  a  few  miles  down 
the  valley,  and  I  never  was  as  thankful  before  that  we 
don't  have  mosquitoes  or  black  flies  nor  nothin'  else 
of  that  sort  of  any  consequence  at  Bethlehem.  They 
nearly  e't  me  up  down  there." 

"What  are  the  black  flies?"    I  asked. 

"They're  a  fly  about  quarter  as  big  as  a  common 
house  fly,"  he  replied,  "and  they  bite  to  beat  the  band. 
Then  there's  the  midgets.  They're  so  small  you  can 
hardly  see  'em.  You  don't  notice  'em  much  till  they 


52          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

bite.  They're  worse  than  the  black  fly.  Oh,  those 
little  midgets  are  something  terrible!  If  any  of  'em 
bite  me  the  bitten  place  swells  up  and  itches  and 
stings." 

A  thunderstorm  was  muttering  and  blinking  in  the 
distance.  During  the  night  much  rain  fell,  and  the 
thunder  reverberated  among  the  heights.  There  were, 
too,  a  number  of  near  and  startling  crashes  which  made 
the  timid  say  their  prayers  and  caused  some  persons 
at  the  hotel  to  get  up  and  dress  to  be  ready  for  emer- 
gencies. But  the  next  morning,  after  the  sun  looked 
through  the  clouds,  all  the  growing  things  had  been 
refreshed  and  the  dust  was  laid  on  the  highways,  and 
every  one  agreed  that  the  storm  had  been  a  beneficence. 

I  engaged  a  team  and  driver  and  went  off  over  the 
hills  to  the  Franconia  Notch.  We  soon  had  the  mighty 
mountains  before  us  with  their  heads  among  the  clouds, 
and  with  the  sunshine  and  shadows  playing  over  them 
in  shifting  hues  of  delicate  green  and  purple.  On  some 
of  them  there  were  great  expanses  of  a  light  emerald 
color,  which  the  driver  said  were  young  growths  of 
birches  that  had  started  up  where  fires  had  run  through 
the  forest. 

"We  don't  have  those  fires  the  way  we  used  to," 
he  added.  "The  woods  are  protected  now.  There  are 
lookout  places  on  the  mountains  where  men  are  watch- 
ing for  fires  all  the  whole  summer  through.  The  men 
have  telescopes,  and  their  lookouts  are  connected  with 
the  villages  by  telephone.  As  soon  as  they  see  smoke 


June  in  the  White  Mountains  53 

of  a  fire  starting  they  telephone  down  saying  where  it 
is,  and  men  are  soon  on  the  spot  putting  it  out." 

We  travelled  a  winding  road  that  was  constantly 
going  up  or  down  hill,  and  was  usually  closely  hemmed 
in  by  the  forest.  Nearly  always  a  stream  was  near  by 
singing  over  the  stones  and  boulders  that  strewed  its 
course,  and  sometimes  raising  its  voice  in  louder 
cadence  where  it  made  a  sudden  descent  in  a  waterfall. 
We  passed  several  typical  mountain  hotels — enor- 
mous, wide-spreading,  many-windowed  structures  with 
carefully-kept  grounds  and  close-clipped  golf  links. 
They  contrasted  strangely  with  the  wilderness  around 
and  seemed  very  frail  and  ephemeral  when  compared 
with  the  vast  upheaval  of  granite  mountains  that 
formed  the  usual  background. 

Our  first  stop  was  at  Echo  Lake,  a  dainty  body  of 
water  with  steep  wooded  heights  rising  from  its  borders. 
I  rambled  along  a  waterside  path  and  shouted,  but  a 
roistering  wind  was  blowing,  and  the  echo  did  not 
work  well.  The  nymph  on  the  tree-clad  bluff  across 
the  lake  only  responded  faintly  and  uncertainly. 

A  mile  farther  on  was  Profile  Lake  where  the  great 
attraction  is  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain.  The  woods 
sweep  up  a  precipitous  slope  for  more  than  a  thousand 
feet,  and  you  see  near  the  summit  of  the  mountain  the 
grim  stone  features  of  the  Old  Man  outjutting  from  a 
tremendous  cliff.  The  face  itself  is  eighty  feet  in  length, 
but  the  beholder  does  not  realize  its  great  size  at  such 
a  distance,  and  marvels  most  that  it  is  so  strikingly 


54          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

human.  The  Indians  were  its  original  discoverers,  and 
I  wondered  what  impression  was  made  on  them  by 
that  strange  face  gazing  forth  from  the  brow  of  the 
wilderness  mountain. 

A  scarcely  less  famous  attraction  of  the  Franconia 
Notch  is  the  Flume.  It  is  a  little  aside  from  the  main 
valley  up  a  steep  slope.  There  you  find  an  almost 
straight  cleft  in  the  mountain,  nine  hundred  feet  long 
and  sixty  or  more  deep.  The  perpendicular  walls  are 
only  a  few  feet  apart,  and  a  little  stream  rushes  down 
the  shadowy  depths  with  much  noise  and  tumult.  To 
enter  the  Flume  on  a  warm  day  is  like  going  into  an 
ice-box.  The  stream  and  a  strewing  of  boulders  occupy 
all  the  space  at  the  bottom  of  the  chasm,  and  a  board 
walk  has  been  built  just  above  the  stream  along  one 
wall.  The  wet  cliffs  loom  on  either  side,  and  up  aloft 
you  glimpse  the  foliage  of  the  trees  that  grow  on  their 
verge.  At  the  far  end  of  the  Flume  the  stream  leaps 
from  the  brow  of  a  precipice  in  a  graceful  cascade. 

Formerly  there  was  an  enormous  suspended  boulder 
in  the  Flume  so  firmly  wedged  between  the  cliffs  that 
it  seemed  destined  to  stay  there  until  doomsday.  But 
in  1883  a  violent  thunderstorm  started  a  landslide  up 
beyond  the  cleft,  and  all  the  rubbish  came  down  through 
and  carried  along  the  boulder.  The  mass  of  rocks  and 
earth  and  trees  was  deposited  some  distance  below. 
Whether  the  boulder  was  broken  into  fragments,  or 
whether  it  lies  buried  entire  in  the  debris  no  one 
knows. 


June  in  the  White  Mountains  55 

After  I  returned  to  the  highway  I  tramped  off  in 
another  direction  on  a  sylvan  path  to  "The  Pool." 
Here  in  a  deep  nook  of  the  woodland  a  stream  dropped 
over  a  ledge  into  a  rockbound  basin.  The  mossy  cliffs 
and  towering  trees  that  walled  in  the  pool  made  it 
particularly  cool  and  secluded  and  romantic.  A  lone 
fisherman  sat  on  a  shelving  rock  patiently  angling  for 
trout  and  smoking  cigarets.  When  I  came  away  he 
followed  empty-handed  making  very  scurrilous  remarks 
about  a  certain  trout  he  had  seen  in  the  pool  which 
very  inconsiderately  refused  to  be  caught. 

During  the  day's  ride  my  driver  casually  mentioned 
that  a  certain  Bethlehem  man  named  Thompson  had 
trapped  a  bear  a  fortnight  before.  I  met  him  in  the 
village  that  evening — a  gray  elderly  man,  but  still 
vigorous.  "Yes,  I  caught  a  bear  this  summer,"  he 
acknowledged.  "I  got  him  over  on  Gale  River  about 
three  mile  from  here.  I've  caught  eight  bears  there  in 
the  last  five  years.  This  one  was  fat  as  a  pig.  He 
weighed  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds.  I  gave  con- 
siderable of  the  meat  away  to  the  neighbors.  It  was 
tender,  and  a  lot  of  'em  e't  it.  But  no  bear  meat  for 
me!  The  animals  smell  too  much  like  a  colored  person. 

"Their  hides  are  best  in  May  and  June,  and  that's 
the  only  time  of  year  I  care  to  trap  'em.  They  com- 
mence to  shed  their  hair  about  the  middle  of  July. 
Then  the  hides  won't  bring  nothin'.  The  prices  we  git 
for  good  ones  vary  anywhere  from  twenty  to  forty 
dollars.  Besides,  there's  a  five  dollar  bounty  which 


56          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

you  can  collect  by  showing  the  hide  to  the  proper 
official.  He  slits  an  ear  or  punches  a  hole  in  it  so  the 
bounty  won't  be  collected  a  second  time.  The  hide  of 
the  bear  I  got  the  other  day  is  just  as  black  as  a  crow. 
Come  up  to  my  house  and  I'll  show  it  to  you." 

He  led  the  way  to  a  comfortable  little  dwelling  on  a 
side  street  and  stepped  in  to  get  a  lantern.  Then  he 
took  me  to  the  shed  when  the  bearskin  was  nailed  up 
on  an  inside  wall,  and  told  how  difficult  the  process 
was  of  getting  the  skin  off  with  the  claws  on  it  and  the 
ears  and  other  parts  of  the  head  all  complete,  which 
was  the  proper  way  if  it  was  to  be  used  for  a  rug. 
Afterward  he  locked  the  shed  and  brought  a  bear  trap 
from  the  barn  for  me  to  see.  It  was  a  big,  savage- 
looking  affair  with  stout  steel  springs  and  cruel,  toothed 
jaws. 

Presently  we  adjourned  to  the  house  piazza.,  and  my 
companion  filled  and  lit  his  pipe.  "Hunting  runs  in 
in  the  family,"  he  remarked.  "My  father  was  a  trapper 
and  guide,  and  so  was  his  father  before  him.  He  come 
into  this  town  when  he  was  a  young  feller.  The 
region  was  about  all  woods  then.  It  was  a  great  timber 
country,  and  some  of  the  people  lived  in  log  houses. 
Father  was  the  first  man  who  was  ever  paid  as  much  as 
fifty  cents  a  day  for  his  labor  here.  Others  got  anywhere 
from  twenty-five  to  forty  cents. 

"All  he  used  to  do  at  certain  times  of  the  year  was 
hunting.  I've  seen  him  take  his  gun  when  he'd  just 
got  up  in  the  morning  and  say  to  mother,  'I'll  be  back 


June  in  the  White  Mountains  57 

to  breakfast;'  and  he'd  start  off  across  country  and 
not  return  for  three  days.  He'd  travel  on  and  on  look- 
ing for  game.  Come  night  he'd  stop  at  some  farmhouse, 
and  he  was  always  welcome. 

"One  fall,  when  I  was  a  boy,  he  had  one  hundred 
and  twelve  fox  skins  hung  up  in  the  unfinished  second 
story  of  the  house.  He  stuffed  'em  with  hay,  and  they 
looked  plump  and  full.  They  were  hung  up  by  the 
nose.  Most  of  our  foxes  were  red,  but  now  and  then 
we'd  git  a  woods  gray.  Sometimes  too,  we'd  shoot 
what  we  called  a  Samson  fox  that  you'd  think,  to  see 
it,  had  been  in  the  fire  and  got  its  fur  singed.  It  looked 
so  mean  that  the  hide  wasn't  worth  much.  We'd  git 
some  coon  and  mink,  and  quite  a  lot  of  sable  or  martin, 
and  once  in  a  great  while  an  otter. 

"My  father  lived  to  be  ninety-five.  People  called 
him  'Old  Man  Thompson.'  He  knew  all  about  wild 
animals.  A  feller  come  to  him  one  day  and  said  he'd 
tried  again  and  again  to  keep  red  squirrels  in  a  cage, 
but  they  pined  away  and  died.  'You  ketch  your 
squirrel  in  a  box  trap,'  Father  told  him,  'and  don't  let 
it  eat  for  twenty-four  hours.  Then  give  it  a  dose  of 
half  molasses  and  half  rum.  After  it  gits  over  the 
effect  of  that  it'll  have  forgotten  its  wild  life  and  will 
thrive  and  be  contented  in  the  cage.' 

"Nearly  fifty  years  ago  he  caught  the  last  wolf  that 
was  ever  seen  in  this  country.  A  man  had  drawed  a 
dead  ox  out  in  his  pasture,  and  Father  saw  the  wolf 
eating  the  ox.  He  set  a  trap  and  caught  it.  A  long 


58          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

time  after  that  I  saw  the  tracks  of  two  of  'em  when  I 
was  back  on  the  mountains  deer  hunting.  They  had 
been  quite  plenty  here. 

"The  bears  come  out  of  their  winter  sleeping  places 
just  as  soon  as  the  snow  melts  off.  They're  usually 
fat  then,  but  food  is  scarce  until  the  berries  git  ripe  in 
summer,  and  before  that  time  the  bears  are  pretty 
lean.  In  the  spring  they  eat  roots,  and  they'll  tear  a 
rotten  log  or  stump  all  to  pieces  to  git  the  big  ants  that 
are  inside.  Those  ants  are  sour.  I  used  to  have  a 
Frenchman  workin'  for  me  who  liked  the  taste  of  'em. 
He'd  find  'em  when  he  was  chopping,  and  he'd  take  a 
handful  out  and  eat  'em.  He  said  they  tasted  just  like 
pickles. 

"Bears  dig  out  yellow  wasps'  nests,  and  if  they  can 
git  into  a  tree  where  there's  honey  they'll  take  that 
every  time.  They're  great  on  beechnuts.  In  the  fall 
they  paw  up  the  snow  and  leaves  to  git  'em.  They 
like  apples,  and  I've  seen  where  they've  climbed  up  and 
damaged  a  tree  pretty  bad,  pulling  in  limbs  and  brushing 
'em  off  to  git  the  fruit.  Bears  are  good  climbers,  but 
they  can't  climb  a  small  tree.  It's  got  to  be  big  enough 
to  hug  or  to  hang  onto  with  their  claws.  They  eat  a 
good  many  wild  turnips;  and  oh  Lord!  those  turnips 
are  smarty— just  like  cayenne  pepper.  They're  the 
greatest  thing  in  the  world  for  a  cold.  Dry  your  turnip 
and  grate  it  and  put  it  in  hot  water  and  sweeten  it. 
Then  you've  got  a  drink  that'll  roll  the  sweat  right  out 
of  you  if  you  take  a  good  dose. 


June  in  the  White  Mountains  59 

"I've  got  a  camp  over  on  Gale  River,  and  one  of  my 
bear  traps  is  set  there  now.  When  I  want  to  trap  a 
bear  I  try  to  find  two  old  logs  that  lie  about  three  feet 
apart.  Then  I  build  up  on  top  of  'em  with  other  logs 
to  a  height  of  three  feet  or  so.  I  drive  in  stakes  and 
use  wire  to  hold  the  logs  in  position  and  prevent  'em 
from  falling  down  or  being  knocked  down  by  the  bear. 
Then  I  make  a  kind  of  a  coop  by  plugging  up  one  end 
of  the  passage  between  the  logs.  I  put  bait  at  the  far 
end  of  the  coop,  and  right  in  front  of  the  bait  set  my 
trap.  The  bait  is  any  old  refuse  that  I  can  git  at  the 
meat  market.  Codfish  is  good,  or  salt  pork,  or  lamb. 
Honey  is  best  of  all.  The  bears  like  that  awfully  well, 
but  it's  a  little  too  expensive. 

"I  don't  hitch  the  trap,  because  if  I  did  the  bear  at 
his  first  jump  would  jerk  his  foot  out.  A  bear  is  a 
drefful  strong  animal,  and  he's  sure  to  git  away  unless 
you  have  a  good  holt  on  him.  The  trap  itself  weighs 
thirty  pounds  and  has  a  chain  five  foot  long  hitched  to 
it,  and  on  the  end  of  that  is  a  three-clawed  grapple 
which  drags  along  and  ketches  on  roots  and  things. 
The  grapple  hinders  the  bear  so  he  won't  go  a  great 
ways  before  he  gits  so  tangled  up  he  has  to  stop.  He 
does  some  awful  scratching  tearin',  and  bitin'.  Good 
land!  I  could  show  you  the  marks  now  made  by  one  I 
caught  two  years  ago. 

"There's  just  as  many  bears  in  these  mountains  as 
there  ever  was,  but  they  keep  away  from  the  villages 
and  farms  usually,  and  people  seldom  have  a  sight  of 


60          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

them.  Besides,  a  bear  does  his  stirring  mostly  at  night. 
If  they  see  you  or  smell  you  they  git  out  of  the  way. 
Horses  are  all-fired  afraid  of  'em  as  a  general  thing. 
They  can  smell  'em  half  a  mile.  That's  more  than  a 
man  can  do,  but  if  you  ketch  one  in  a  trap  you  can 
smell  him  all  right. 

"When  a  bear's  cornered  you  want  to  keep  right 
away  from  him.  He's  got  sharp  claws,  and  he  can  give 
an  awful  blow.  Let  him  git  a  good  stroke  at  a  man  and 
he'll  take  all  the  clothes  off  and  some  of  the  feller's  hide, 
too.  Worse  than  a  cornered  bear  is  one  that's  got  cubs. 

"A  few  years  ago,  in  May,  three  of  us  were  out 
a-fishing.  We  had  a  board  shanty  where  lumbermen 
had  been,  not  far  from  a  road.  One  of  the  fellers  was 
gittin'  dinner,  and  I  was  in  the  camp  layin'  on  the  bed 
when  a  tramp  come  and  told  us  that  just  up  the  road 
was  two  cubs  and  an  old  bear.  He  and  another  tramp 
had  been  going  along  the  road,  but  when  they  saw  the 
bears  they  didn't  dast  to  go  no  farther.  One  of  'em 
stayed  to  keep  track  of  the  bears,  and  the  other  come 
running  back  to  us.  I  took  an  old  carbine  we  had,  and 
we  all  went  with  him,  but  the  animals  wa'n't  in  sight, 
and  the  feller  who  was  watchin'  was  so  scat  he  didn't 
know  where  they'd  gone  nor  nothin'. 

"The  tramps  went  right  along.  They  didn't  stop  for 
no  ceremony,  and  we  hunted  around  till  we  found  the 
cubs  up  a  tree.  We  had  a  meal  sack  and  a  rope,  and 
one  of  the  fellers  dim'  the  tree  and  got  a  noose  over  the 
head  of  one  of  the  cubs  and  let  him  down.  But  the 


June  in  the  White  Mountains  61 

cub  squealed  like  a  little  snipe.  He  wa'n't  used  to  that 
kind  of  handling. 

"The  feller  that  was  with  me  on  the  ground  suddenly 
dropped  the  bag.  'By  George!'  he  yelled,  'there's  the 
old  bear!' 

"I  looked  up  the  hill  and  saw  her  comin'  pell-mell. 
My  gun  was  right  handy,  and  I  grabbed  it  and  fired. 
I  didn't  hit  her,  but  she  turned  and  run  into  the  woods. 
We  bagged  the  cubs  pretty  quick  then  and  went  back 
to  camp  with  'em.  Later  we  brought  'em  to  town  and 
tamed  'em.  One  was  clever  as  a  kitten,  but  you 
couldn't  go  near  the  other  without  his  cuffing  you  with 
his  paw  if  he  could. 

"About  1880  we  had  a  bear  hunt  one  Sunday  morn- 
ing right  here  in  the  village.  It  was  in  July,  and  the 
place  was  pretty  well  filled  up  with  summer  people. 
A  feller  went  to  his  pasture  to  fix  his  fence  and  saw  an 
old  bear  and  three  cubs,  and  he  come  after  Father  and 
me.  We'd  done  more  hunting  than  all  the  rest  of  the 
people  in  the  town.  I  had  a  little  dog  that  was  half 
hound,  and  I  took  him  with  me  to  see  if  he'd  foller  the 
trail.  The  bears  had  gone  farther  back  up  on  the  hill, 
but  the  dog  ran  along  smelling  the  tracks  as  if  he'd 
always  follered  bears.  We  found  'em  on  the  edge  of 
the  woods  and  shot  the  old  bear  the  first  thing.  Then 
the  dog  took  after  one  of  the  cubs,  and  the  cub  went  up 
a  tree.  We  shot  him,  and  the  dog  chased  another  down 
toward  the  village  and  treed  him  so  we  shot  him,  too. 
The  third  got  away. 


62          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

"The  people  in  the  town  heard  the  shooting  and  they 
found  out  in  no  time  that  we  wrere  after  bears.  Lots 
of  'em  hustled  up  there  on  the  hill — oh  Lordy,  yes! 
women  and  men  both.  A  good  many  come  out  of 
church,  and  we  had  more  of  a  congregation  than  the 
preachers  did.  There  was  a  regular  mob  around  the 
dead  bears.  The  dog  was  the  hero  of  the  occasion.  I 
kept  him  till  he  died  of  old  age.  If  I  had  him  today  I 
wouldn't  take  a  hundred  dollars  for  him. 

"The  worst  scrape  I  ever  had  with  a  bear  was  one 
time  when  a  neighbor  who  lived  a  little  out  from  the 
village  come  and  wanted  me  to  set  a  trap  for  a  bear 
that  was  ketchin'  his  sheep.  Every  few  nights  the  bear 
would  git  a  sheep,  and  sometimes  he'd  eat  a  whole  one  at 
once.  I  found  where  he  went  out  through  what  we  call 
a  slash  or  hedge  fence.  The  fence  is  made  by  notching 
small  trees  at  about  the  height  of  four  feet  so  the  tops 
will  fall  over  but  remain  hanging  on  the  stumps.  Tops 
and  stumps  form  a  kind  of  windrow  thick  enough  to  keep 
the  cattle  from  gittin'  into  the  woods  beyond. 

"When  the  bear  made  a  raid,  as  soon  as  he  was  back 
through  the  slash  fence,  he  would  stop  and  skin  the 
sheep  and  eat  it.  A  bear  will  skin  a  sheep  as  well  as 
you  could  with  a  knife.  Then  he  rolls  the  skin  up  and 
covers  it  roughly  with  sticks.  The  bear  I  was  after 
had  e't  part  of  the  last  sheep  he'd  caught  and  left  the 
rest,  and  I  knew  he'd  return  for  it.  I  fixed  the  sheep 
in  the  bushes  so  he  would  have  to  come  up  in  just  one 
place  to  git  it,  and  there  I  set  my  trap. 


June  in  the  White  Mountains  63 

"A  few  days  later  word  was  sent  that  the  bear  had 
gone  off  with  the  trap.  My  father  and  I  and  two  other 
fellers  went  to  foller  him.  In  them  days  we  tied  a  clog 
of  wood  to  the  chain,  and  the  bear  had  dragged  it  into 
a  clump  of  spruces.  We  saw  where  he  had  reached  up 
to  bite  the  trees  trying  to  git  away.  He'd  take  chunks 
right  out  of  'em,  and  he  had  torn  up  some  that  were  as 
big  as  a  stovepipe.  The  clog  was  hitched  to  a  heavy 
cable  chain,  but  he  finally  broke  that  chain  and  got 
away  into  the  big  woods  where  it  was  hard  tracking 
him.  He  went  round  and  round  and  criss-cross  and 
every  way.  Sometimes  he  lay  down.  Then  he'd  git 
up  and  go  on. 

"We  follered  that  bear  much  as  ten  mile  before  we 
saw  or  heard  anything  of  him.  He  was  on  a  mountain, 
and  he  started  to  run  and  the  trap  rattled  on  the 
stones  that  were  there.  A  young  feller  named  Brown 
and  I  were  ahead,  and  we  took  after  him  and  left  the 
others  behind.  Just  as  soon  as  we  come  in  sight  of  him 
he  stopped  and  looked  right  at  us.  We  stopped,  too. 
He  was  a  good  big  one,  and  he  looked  pretty  sassy. 
I'd  brought  along  a  shotgun,  and  I  took  aim  at  one  of 
his  ears  and  shot  six  times.  I  knocked  him  down  every 
time,  but  he  jumped  up  afterward.  Oh  gorry!  he'd  git 
right  up  on  his  hind  feet  and  snort  like  everything. 

"I  used  up  all  my  cartridges,  and  Brown  and  I  went 
to  work  with  our  jackknives,  and  cut  some  clubs  as 
big  as  my  arm.  We  thought  the  bear  was  about  dead. 
Brown  struck  him  with  his  club  on  the  nose  but  didn't 


64          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

jar  him  a  mite.  It  just  made  him  all  the  madder.  He 
run  and  stuck  his  head  under  a  log.  I  pulled  the 
bushes  away  to  give  him  a  swipe,  but  he  dodged  back. 
Then  Frown  whacked  him  and  lost  his  balance.  That 
gave  the  bear  a  chance  to  make  a  grab  and  put  two  of 
his  tushes  through  Brown's  wrist,  and  two  through  his 
hand.  He  made  a  snap  just  as  a  dog  would  and  then 
let  go. 

"By  that  time  Father  and  the  other  feller  had  got 
along.  That  feller  was  a  man  who  would  weigh  two 
hundred  pounds,  and  now  he  thought  he'd  try  his 
hand.  He  took  a  club  and  struck  that  bear  right  over 
the  top  of  the  head.  The  only  result  was  that  the  bear 
started  for  him.  I  sung  out  to  him  to  git  out  of  the 
way,  and  he  did. 

"'Twas  almost  dark  then,  and  I  told  the  others, 
'You  can  play  with  that  bear  as  much  as  you  want  to, 
but  I'm  done  until  I  git  more  ammunition.' 

"We  all  went  down  the  mountain.  Brown's  wounds 
pained  him  terribly,  and  he  like  to  have  lost  his  hand 
before  he  got  through.  He  never's  been  bear-hunting 
since. 

"The  next  morning  I  went  back  to  the  mountain 
with  the  shotgun  and  about  twenty  men  come  along 
with  me.  The  bear  was  gone,  but  after  follering  his 
trail  half  a  mile  we  found  him.  He  was  among  the  rocks 
and  ledges  and  slash  where  'twas  rougher'n  blazes,  and 
he  had  crawled  into  an  old  mess  of  logs.  He  riz  up  and 
I  shot  him.  Then  he  started  toward  us,  and  the  fellers 


June  in  the  White  Mountains  65 

that  was  with  me  scattered  every  which  way  and  clim' 
the  trees.  He  didn't  go  but  a  few  steps  when  I  let  him 
have  one  more  charge,  and  that  finished  him. 

"We  hitched  a  rope  to  him  and  dragged  him  trap  and 
all  a  mile  or  more  out  of  the  woods  and  then  put  him  on 
a  buckboard  and  brought  him  to  town.  He  was  a 
monster,  but  he  only  weighed  three  hundred  pounds. 
There  wasn't  an  ounce  of  fat  on  him.  He  was  awful 
poor.  I  saved  his  hide,  but  the  meat  was  no  good. 
You  couldn't  eat  a  piece  of  it  no  more  than  you  could 
the  sole  of  your  shoe  it  was  so  tough.  He  was  a  regular 
old  racer." 

The  White  Mountains  include  no  less  than  twenty 
bold  peaks  and  abound  in  wild  valleys,  deep  gorges, 
lakes,  and  cascades.  They  were  held  in  much  reverence 
by  the  Indians  who  believed  them  to  be  the  abode  of 
the  Great  Spirit  and  affirmed  that  no  one  who  scaled 
the  sacred  heights  returned  alive.  This,  however,  did 
not  prevent  the  first  white  who  wandered  into  the  region 
in  1642  from  climbing  Mount  Washington,  the  noblest 
height  of  all.  He  found  many  crystals  which  he  mis- 
took for  diamonds,  and  for  a  long  time  the  mountains 
were  called  the  "Crystal  Hills."  The  first  settlement 
among  the  mountains  was  made  in  1792  by  a  hunter. 
About  ten  years  later  a  small  inn  was  built,  but  fifty 
years  more  passed  before  there  were  any  hotels. 

I  was  eager  for  a  close  acquaintance  with  the  monarch 
of  the  mountains,  and  one  morning  I  set  forth  on  foot 
from  Bretton  Woods  to  scale  it.  The  distance  across  the 


66          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

lowlands  to  the  base  of  the  mountain  was  six  miles, 
and  nearly  all  the  way  the  narrow  road  was  hemmed  in 
by  forest.  As  I  looked  ahead  the  road  seemed  about 
to  come  to  an  end  at  every  turn  and  to  lead  nowhere. 
It  rarely  afforded  the  least  glimpse  of  the  heights  that 
I  knew  loomed  so  near.  The  only  gaps  were  made  by 
streams  whose  noisy  waters  writhed  and  leaped  amid 
the  ledges  and  boulders  of  the  hollows.  I  constantly 
heard  the  birds  calling  in  the  vernal  bowers  around,  and 
now  and  then  there  came  to  my  ears  the  cheerful 
chatter  of  a  chipmunk  or  squirrel.  Sometimes  I  saw 
the  hoofprints  of  a  deer  in  the  roadway.  But  I  seldom 
caught  sight  of  any  of  the  forest  animals  either  furred 
or  feathered. 

After  I  reached  the  foot  of  the  mountain  I  went  on 
beside  the  cog  railway  that  ascends  to  the  summit.  For 
a  mile  or  two  the  tracks  were  in  the  center  of  a  broad 
grassy  space  cleared  through  the  woodland,  and  there 
was  a  faint  path  in  the  sward  so  that  the  climbing  was 
not  especially  arduous.  Occasionally  I  stopped  to 
rest  and  look  back  on  the  broad  landscape  of  almost 
unending  forest,  and  the  maze  of  dreamy  mountains 
that  bounded  the  horizon. 

As  I  went  higher  the  route  became  rough  and  rocky, 
and  I  walked  on  the  ties  for  the  most  part.  The  rail- 
road was  on  a  trestle  only  slightly  above  the  level  of  the 
ground,  unless  it  crossed  a  depression.  But  the  ties 
were  greasy  and  slippery  and  had  gaping  holes  between 
them,  and  when  the  trestle  was  exceptionally  high  and 


June  in  the  White  Mountains  67 

dizzy  I  abandoned  it.  A  misstep  would  perhaps  mean 
a  broken  leg,  or  a  train  might  come  along  and  make 
things  awkward  for  me.  So  I  preferred  a  tooth  and 
nail  scramble  down  below  over  the  big  angular  rock 
fragments. 

The  trees  steadily  diminished  in  size,  and  at  the 
height  of  three  thousand  feet  they  were  not  half  as 
large  as  those  in  the  valley.  At  four  thousand  feet  they 
were  mere  shrubs,  scraggly,  stunted,  and  gray  with  age 
and  shaggy  moss.  Presently  even  these  pinched  earth- 
hugging  birches  and  spruces  found  the  soil  too  thin  and 
the  warfare  with  the  elements  too  strenuous,  and  there 
was  nought  but  a  dun  waste  of  shattered,  lichened 
rocks  with  intervals  of  coarse  grass,  moss,  diminutive 
blueberry  bushes,  and  a  few  dainty  blossoms.  The 
rock  fragments  of  this  blighted  upper  region  looked  as 
if  they  had  lain  there  unchanged  for  ages.  Roundabout 
were  desolate  forbidding  heights  frowning  down  on 
many  a  yawning  gulf  whose  steep  slopes  were  scarred 
with  bare  yellow  streaks  left  by  landslides. 

Occasional  patches  of  snow  lingered  on  the  upper 
slopes,  and  the  air  had  grown  much  colder.  A  gusty 
chilling  gale  was  blowing  that  threatened  to  carry  me 
away  bodily,  and  whenever  I  came  to  a  sheltering  ledge 
or  water  tank  I  hastened  to  get  in  its  lee  and  catch  my 
breath.  The  railway  went  up  and  up  interminably  as 
if  it  aspired  to  reach  to  heaven,  but  at  last  I  saw  a 
scattered  group  of  buildings  on  ahead,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  was  at  the  summit.  Sober  clouds  overhung 


68          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

and  sometimes  enveloped  it,  and  though  the  lowlands 
had  their  drifting  patches  of  sunlight  no  ray  struggled 
through  on  the  mountain  top. 

A  train  had  come  up  from  below,  and  here  and  there 
were  groups  of  sightseers  in  fluttering  wraps.  "This  is 
the  coldest  place  I  ever  came  across,"  one  of  them  was 
saying.  "You  need  all  your  furs  and  winter  clothes  on. 
I  want  to  look  around,  but  every  few  minutes  I  have  to 
go  in  and  get  warm." 

The  chief  refuge  was  the  Tip  Top  House  which  rested 
on  the  summit  among  the  rocks  like  a  stranded  Noah's 
Ark.  It  is  long  and  low,  has  walls  of  stone,  and  its 
roof  is  made  secure  by  anchoring  it  with  numerous 
cables  and  rods.  There  is  plenty  of  need  of  having 
everything  in  trim  for  rough  weather,  for  the  wind  has 
registered  here  the  amazing  velocity  of  one  hundred  and 
eighty-eight  miles  an  hour.  As  to  temperature  the 
cold  is  capable  of  sending  the  mercury  down  to  fifty 
degrees  below  zero. 

The  interior  of  the  Tip  Top  House  with  its  low 
ceilings  and  rude  furnishings  could  hardly  have  been 
any  more  primitive  when  the  building  was  erected  in 
1853.  Long  before  that  visitors  had  begun  to  come  to 
the  mountain  in  considerable  numbers.  A  bridle  path 
was  cut  to  its  top  in  1819,  and  the  next  year  some 
gentlemen  stayed  on  the  summit  over  night  and  named 
the  different  peaks.  The  cog  railroad  was  completed 
in  1869. 

I  concluded  to  go  down  on  the  train.     It  consisted 


June  in  the  White  Mountains  69 

of  a  single  car  and  a  curious  caricature  of  an  engine, 
both  constructed  to  run  on  a  steep  slant.  Presently 
the  sightseers  clambered  into  the  car,  and  the  dumpy 
engine  got  into  motion  for  the  three  mile  trip  to  the 
base.  It  crept  along  at  a  snail's  pace  with  much  hissing, 
creaking,  and  rumbling,  as  if  fearful  of  losing  its  grip 
and  making  a  wild  dash  down  the  mountain  to  destruc- 
tion. Most  of  the  passengers  were  cheerful  and  talka- 
tive, but  there  was  one  fat  man  who  seemed  to  have 
been  frozen  stiff.  His  hat  brim  was  turned  down  all 
around,  and  a  sweater  was  wound  about  his  neck.  As 
he  sat  there  silent  and  immovable,  he  had  much  the 
appearance  of  a  mud  turtle  with  its  head  almost  with- 
drawn into  its  shell.  We  were  nearly  down  the  moun- 
tain before  he  began  to  show  signs  of  life. 

In  the  mild  lower  region  there  was  little  hint  of  the 
savage  gale  that  blew  at  the  summit,  and  I  rambled 
away  through  the  forest  toward  the  Crawford  Notch. 
It  was  warm  on  the  sheltered  roadways,  and  whenever 
a  roadside  sign  informed  me  that  a  spring  was  near  I 
was  tempted  to  pause  and  drink  a  cooling  draught. 
But  always  the  vicinity  of  the  springs  was  the  lurking 
place  of  a  horde  of  bloodthirsty  midgets,  flies,  and 
mosquitoes,  who  quickly  drove  me  back  to  the  high- 
way from  the  otherwise  inviting  nooks.  I  fared  better 
when  I  sought  for  water  in  some  woodland  brook 
tinkling  among  its  green,  mossy  stones. 

One  of  the  characters  of  the  region  whose  fame  has 
lived  after  him  was  a  man  commonly  known  as  "  English 


yo          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

Jack."  "He  was  an  awful  rough  old  fellow,"  a  local 
dweller  explained  to  me.  "He'd  been  at  sea  and  got 
wrecked  on  an  island  where  he  had  to  eat  snakes  and 
frogs  and  roots,  and  all  such  things.  If  he  could  find  a 
snake  he'd  take  it  to  a  hotel  and  eat  it  before  the  guests, 
and  they'd  give  him  money.  His  home  was  right  at  the 
rocky  entrance  to  the  Crawford  Notch  up  in  the  woods 
just  out  of  sight  from  the  highway.  There  was  a  good 
path  to  it,  and  a  sign  by  the  roadside  invited  people  to 
come  to  see  'The  House  that  Jack  Built.'  Lots  of  folks 
would  go  up  there  and  look  around,  and  they'd  pay 
him  ten  cents  or  a  quarter  or  so  apiece.  He  certainly 
was  an  odd  old  stick  and  a  great  talker,  and  I  presume 
he  told  a  good  deal  that  wa'n't  true.  He  had  some 
trinkets  to  sell  and  a  tame  bear  and  a  tank  of  big  trout 
that  he  exhibited.  One  day  he  got  boozy  and  went  to 
foolin'  with  the  bear,  and,  I  snum!  if  help  hadn't  come 
Jack  would  have  been  killed.  After  being  clawed  so 
bad  he  had  the  bear  shot." 

The  house  was  still  standing,  and  when  I  approached 
the  Notch  I  turned  aside  onto  a  path  that  led  to  it. 
This  took  me  through  woodland  on  the  shadowed  side 
of  a  hill  where  the  air  was  cool  and  the  light  was  dim 
and  the  surrounding  forest  full  of  eerie  mystery,  and 
then  I  came  forth  onto  a  grassy  knoll  brightened  with 
sunlight.  There  stood  a  ruinous  shack  of  curious 
architecture  with  the  forest  boughs  throwing  out  pro- 
tecting arms  over  it.  The  walls  were  partly  of  logs  and 
partly  of  odds  and  ends  of  boards.  Inside  was  a  chaos 


June  in  the  White  Mountains  71 

of  broken  furniture  and  rubbish,  and  the  whole  house 
was  disintegrating  and  threatening  to  fall  to  pieces. 

Up  in  the  heart  of  the  Notch  occurred  in  1826  the 
most  noteworthy  tragedy  of  the  mountains.  An 
occasional  life  has  been  lost  in  winter  storms,  and  there 
have  been  some  serious  accidents  to  travellers  on  the 
roads,  but  the  catastrophe  in  the  Notch  excels  all  others 
in  its  appeal  to  the  imagination.  Here  was  a  rustic  inn 
occupied  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Willey,  their  five  children 
and  two  hired  men.  At  dusk  on  the  2Oth  of  August  a 
storm  burst  on  the  mountains  and  raged  with  great 
fury  through  the  night.  Every  tiny  stream  became  a 
torrent,  and  the  valleys  were  flooded,  and  the  roads 
were  impassable. 

Two  days  later  a  traveller  succeeded  in  getting  to 
the  Willey  House,  which  he  found  standing  in  woeful 
desolation.  An  avalanche  of  earth,  rocks,  and  trees 
had  descended  from  the  mountain  and  barely  missed 
carrying  it  away.  When  the  traveller  pushed  open  the 
door  a  dog  disputed  his  entrance  and  howled  mourn- 
fully. The  lonely  cabin  had  no  other  inmates.  Beside 
the  beds  lay  the  clothing  of  the  members  of  the  house- 
hold, indicating  a  hasty  and  frightened  flight.  Ap- 
parently they  had  become  aware  of  the  danger  that 
threatened,  and  had  run  forth  seeking  safety  only  to  be 
overwhelmed.  If  they  had  remained  in  the  house  they 
would  not  have  been  harmed,  for  the  avalanche 
divided  a  little  back  of  the  dwelling  and  rushed  by  on 
either  side  leaving  the  frail  structure  standing,  though 


72          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

some  of  the  debris  struck  it  with  sufficient  force  to 
move  it  slightly  from  its  foundations.  The  bodies  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Willey  were  found  later,  but  not  those 
of  the  rest  of  the  household.  For  twenty-one  miles 
down  the  valley  the  turnpike  was  demolished,  and 
more  than  a  score  of  bridges  were  swept  away.  Some 
of  the  meadows  were  buried  several  feet  deep  with 
earth  and  rocks,  and  there  were  great  barricades  of 
trees  that  had  been  torn  up  by  the  roots. 

From  the  Crawford  Notch  I  walked  back  to  Bretton 
Woods  where  I  arrived  just  after  sunset.  But  beyond 
the  dusky  lowlands  a  warm  glow  lingered  on  the  big 
blue  heights  of  the  Presidential  Range  that  bulwarked 
the  east,  while  above  them  were  clouds  delicately 
flushed  with  tints  of  rose  and  saffron. 

NOTES. — The  manifold  attractions  of  the  mountains  can  only  be 
appreciated  by  making  an  extended  stay.  The  central  group  of 
heights  is  called  the  Presidential  Range  from  the  fact  that  the 
various  peaks  are  named  after  the  early  presidents.  Next  in  im- 
portance are  the  neighboring  Franconia  Mountains.  On  the 
eastern  side  of  Mount  Washington  the  only  highway  up  the  moun- 
tain starts  from  Glen  House,  eight  miles  south  of  Gorham.  Auto- 
mobiles can  make  the  ascent.  Accommodations  are  provided  at 
the  summit  for  persons  who  wish  to  stay  overnight.  One  of  the 
clefts  in  the  mountains  which  particularly  deserves  a  visit  is  Dix- 
ville  Notch,  which  with  its  crags  and  pinnacles  is  more  Alpine  in 
character  than  any  other  portion  of  the  granite  hills.  The  roads 
are  in  the  main  excellent,  though  the  grades  are  sometimes  steep. 
The  intending  visitor  should  have  a  good  guidebook  and  some  of  the 
attractive  pamphlets  published  by  the  railroads. 


IV 


A    NEW    HAMPSHIRE    PARADISE 

I  WAS  at  Windsor  on  the  Vermont  bank  of  the 
Connecticut  approaching  an  old  covered  toll  bridge, 
which  I  planned  to  cross,  for  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  river  was  the  paradise.  But  the  sky  was  gloomy 
with  clouds,  and  rain  began  to  fall.  Even  paradise,  I 
was  afraid,  might  be  somewhat  unsatisfactory  in  a 
downpour,  and  I  betook  myself  to  the  shelter  of  the 
tollgate-keeper's  piazza,  adjacent  to  the  bridge  entrance. 
The  keeper  himself  sat  there  on  guard  watching  the 
teams  and  individuals  coming  and  going.  He  usually 
called  out  a  greeting  to  those  who  went  past,  but  only 
occasionally  did  he  collect  toll. 

"It's  like  this,"  he  explained;  "most  of  the  local 
people  buy  yearly  passes  at  from  two  to  fifteen  dollars 
according  to  the  amount  of  crossing  they  do.  That 
gives  the  right  of  way  to  a  man's  teams  and  all  his 
family.  Now  and  then  I  have  a  little  dispute  as  to 
what  is  a  fair  rate.  One  woman  told  me  this  spring  she 
just  wouldn't  pay  what  I  charged.  'Well,'  I  says, 
'you  can  make  up  your  mind  on  which  side  of  the  river 
you  want  to  stay,  and  then  you  can  stay  there.  You 
can't  cross  this  bridge.' 

"So  she  paid.     For  footmen  we  have  a  lump  rate  of 


74          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

ten  cents  a  month.  To  cross  a  single  time  we  charge  a 
man  two  cents,  but  most  of  them  pay  three  cents  to  go 
over  and  back.  A  good  deal  of  our  business  is  due  to  a 
saloon  near  the  other  end  of  the  bridge.  There's  pro- 
hibition on  our  side  of  the  river,  and  a  pile  of  men  go 
over  there  every  day  to  get  their  bitters.  Take  it 
Saturday  night,  and  there's  a  string  of  'em  all  the  time, 
and  they  don't  give  a  hurrah  what  the  weather  is.  They 
can  buy  the  liquor  any  way  they  want  it,  from  a  glass 
to  a  barrel.  The  saloon  bottles  up  and  ships  off  a  good 
deal  to  the  prohibition  towns,  and  it  makes  more  money 
than  all  our  merchants  here  in  Windsor  put  together. 
But  it  has  to  be  pretty  careful  and  quiet  or  it  would  get 
shut  up.  I  never  saw  that  business  handled  so  de- 
cently, and  they  rarely  let  a  man  drink  so  much  that 
he  makes  trouble. 

"I  don't  have  much  trouble,  anyway.  Once  in  a 
while  I  see  a  team  coming  across  trotting,  and  then  I 
drop  the  gate  down  and  collect  a  two  dollar  fine,  though 
if  the  party  is  ugly  about  it  we  may  kind  o'  com- 
promise. You  see  where  the  gate  has  been  mended. 
I  dropped  it  one  time  to  stop  a  runaway;  but  I  won't 
try  that  again.  The  horse  smashed  right  through,  and 
a  little  farther  along  two  fellers  thought  they  could 
bring  the  horse  to  a  standstill  by  holding  up  a  blanket. 
That  didn't  do  any  good  either.  The  horse  kept 
straight  on  and  tore  the  blanket  all  to  tatters. 

"There's  ten  more  just  such  toll  bridges  as  this  on 
the  river  between  Vermont  and  New  Hampshire.  They 


A  New  Hampshire  Paradise  75 

belong  to  private  companies.  I  suppose  the  public 
ought  to  own  'em  so  travel  would  be  free,  and  there's 
attempts  being  made  to  bring  that  about.  The  state 
legislatures  have  tackled  the  subject,  but  New  Hamp- 
shire owns  to  high-water  line  on  this  side  of  the  river 
and  most  the  whole  length  of  the  bridges  is  on  New 
Hampshire  territory.  The  benefits  would  be  equal; 
but  the  two  states  don't  agree  about  the  proportion 
each  ought  to  pay  to  buy  out  the  bridge  companies. 
Then,  too,  the  advantages  gained  would  be  almost 
wholly  for  those  who  lived  close  by.  The  other 
parts  of  the  state  don't  see  any  gain  for  them,  and 
they're  inclined  to  fight  being  taxed  for  such  a  pur- 
chase. So  there's  a  hitch  and  a  haul  and  we  don't  get 
nowhere. 

"This  bridge  was  built  about  forty  years  ago.  The 
one  we  had  before  was  washed  away  in  a  big  flood. 
That  was  in  February  1866.  An  ice  jam  formed  below 
here,  and  the  water  dammed  back  and  lifted  off  the 
bridge.  It  hung  together  long  enough  as  it  went  down 
stream  to  smash  a  hole  through  the  next  covered  bridge, 
but  the  ice  and  water  finally  tore  it  all  to  pieces." 

In  the  midst  of  the  shower  the  tollgate-keeper  called 
out  to  a  man  in  a  buggy,  "A  little  damp  this  morning, 
ain't  it?" 

"Yes,  in  some  places,"  the  man  responded  cheerfully. 

When  the  scud  was  over  he  greeted  another  passer 
with  the  query,  "Is  it  done  raining,  Tom?" 

"I  do'  know,"  Tom  said.    "May  be  letting  go  to  get 


76          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

a  new  hold.  It  looks  promising  enough  just  now,  but 
I  bet  you  we're  goin'  to  get  some  more." 

One  individual  who  drove  by  was  a  peddler  of  hulled 
corn.  "And  he  sells  quite  a  little  around,"  the  gate- 
keeper observed.  "But  I  don't  relish  it.  They  do  the 
hulling  now  with  soda,  and  the  corn  ain't  got  that  lye 
taste  the  old-fashioned  sort  had.  I  can  remember  as  a 
boy  how  my  grandmother  used  to  take  a  bag  of  wood 
ashes  and  put  it  right  in  the  kittle  with  the  corn,  and 
her  hulled  corn  tasted  first-rate.  We  e't  it  with  milk." 

The  sun  was  now  shining  brightly  down  on  the  wet 
earth,  and  I  paid  the  keeper  of  the  tollgate  three  cents 
and  went  across  the  bridge  to  Cornish.  Somewhere  in 
the  township,  far  back  from  the  river,  there  is  a  village; 
but  it  is  not  in  the  paradise  portion,  and  no  one 
seemed  to  know  exactly  where  Cornish  village  is.  I 
did  not  attempt  to  discover  it  myself;  for  I  was  quite 
content  with  the  region  in  which  I  then  was.  The 
combination  of  pleasant  vales  and  big  irregular  hills  is 
so  charming  that  it  has  taken  the  fancy  of  a  gradually 
increasing  colony  of  artists  and  authors,  and  of  certain 
other  persons  who  have  taste  and  wealth,  if  not  genius. 
Cultivated  fields  and  pastures  intermit  with  patches 
of  woodland  where  the  trees  grow  undisturbed  to  full 
stature.  Streams  of  varying  size  abound,  and  to  the 
southward  rises  the  mighty  form  of  Mount  Ascutney,  a 
lonely  blue  peak  that  presides  over  and  lends  dignity 
to  the  scene.  The  giant  mountain  did  not  at  any  time 
fully  reveal  itself  on  my  first  day  in  the  region.  Even 


A  New  Hampshire  Paradise  77 

after  nearly  the  whole  sky  had  cleared  it  continued  to 
sleep  among  the  clouds,  and  a  cloud  cap  was  still  resting 
on  the  summit  when  night  came. 

It  was  early  September,  and  the  grasses  and  other 
wild  growths  formed  rank  tangles  along  the  borders  of 
the  roads  and  fields.  Conspicuous  in  this  plant-world 
jungle  were  the  podded  milkweeds  and  the  blossoms  of 
the  wild  sunflowers,  asters,  goldenrods,  and  stout- 
stemmed  thistles.  Another  characteristic  of  the  begin- 
ning of  autumn  was  the  astonishing  abundance  of 
insect  life.  The  air  was  everywhere  melodious  with 
tiny  trills  and  pipings,  and  at  midday  the  cicadas 
shrilled  their  long-drawn  song  of  heat.  If  I  crossed  a 
field  a  squad  of  grasshoppers  leaped  away  each  time 
I  took  a  step,  and  I  found  insects  of  some  sort  in  every 
nook  and  cranny  that  I  chanced  to  observe.  Once  I 
paused  to  look  at  a  clump  of  goldenrod.  Numerous 
flies  and  many-colored  bugs  and  bees  haunted  its 
flower-clusters.  But  these  honey-hunters  did  not 
comprise  all  the  insects  present  there;  for  down  below, 
amid  the  leaves  and  stems,  certain  bloodthirsty  spiders 
had  spread  their  snares  and,  head  downward,  in  the 
middle  of  their  nets,  they  waited  for  such  of  the  un- 
wary lovers  of  the  bloom  as  might  happen  to  blunder 
into  their  traps.  Evidently  paradise  was  not  all  it 
might  be  among  these  little  wild  folk  and  I  suppose 
it  is  only  the  human  residents  who  feel  the  uplift  of  the 
beautiful  environment. 

Some  of  the  city  people  who  have  chosen  to  own 


78          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

homes  in  this  region  stay  merely  during  the  warm 
weather,  and  others  through  the  entire  year.  Each 
family  has  selected  the  spot  that  most  appealed  to  them 
amid  the  medley  of  rough  pastures,  wooded  hollows 
and  old  farm  fields,  and  has  there  erected  a  mansion 
and  turned  the  immediate  vicinity  into  an  oasis  of 
lawn  and  garden,  fountains  and  terraces,  hedgerows, 
and  ornamental  trees  and  shrubbery.  These  homes 
and  their  surroundings  are  often  wonderfully  charming, 
and  some  of  the  gardens  with  their  tints  of  rainbow  are 
like  bits  of  fairyland;  but  the  landscape  as  a  whole 
continues  half-wild,  and  the  intervals  between  the 
widely  scattered  mansions  are  for  the  most  part 
ordinary  farming  country. 

A  few  of  the  old  farms  have  been  bought  entire,  but 
more  often  the  purchase  is  of  a  comparatively  limited 
number  of  acres.  To  quote  one  of  the  natives,  "Most 
of  these  people  don't  care  about  bein'  near  their  neigh- 
bors or  livin'  on  a  main  highway,  or  even  about  owning 
good  land.  It  seems  to  suit  'em  best  if  they  can  put 
up  a  house  way  off  in  a  pasture.  They'll  buy  the 
rockiest,  meanest  land  we've  got — the  very  worst  spots 
that  are  to  be  had.  It's  strange,  ain't  it,  gcin'  off  in  a 
pasture  to  live;  but  they  must  like  it,  I  suppose.  Last 
year  a  new  man  bought  a  patch  of  that  rough  land  and 
paid  six  thousand  dollars  for  it.  The  farmer  'twas 
bought  of  had  been  quite  a  lot  in  debt;  but  he  got 
twice  what  his  whole  place  was  naturally  worth,  and 
since  then  he's  been  aboveboard.  Of  course  everybody 


A  New  Hampshire  Paradise  79 

knew  the  price  that  was  paid,  and  the  assessors  tried 
to  tax  the  buyer  at  that  rate  instead  of  what  the  land 
had  been  paying  in  the  past.  They  were  a  little  too 
cunning  and  they  slipped  up  in  that  scheme.  If  they 
hadn't  pushed  on  to  him  so  hard  they'd  been  all  right; 
but  he  wouldn't  pay  the  bill  they  sent  him  and  said 
he'd  spend  twenty  thousand  dollars  fighting  'em  before 
he'd  stand  such  a  tax.  So  they  finally  backed  down. 

"When  a  city  family  comes  and  builds  a  house  and 
settles  in  it,  you  might  think  they'd  got  everything 
right  and  the  place  fixed  up  for  good;  but  they  ain't 
contented  to  leave  well  enough  alone.  They're  always 
improving  and  changing,  tearing  down,  and  adding  on. 
They  are  sure  to  spend  a  great  deal  more  than  they 
expected  'twould  cost  'em  when  they  started.  I  know 
one  man  who's  spent  ten  times  what  he  intended  to 
lay  out.  He  made  his  first  mistake  by  putting  up  his 
house  way  off  in  the  woods.  There  hain't  no  other 
fine  house  anywhere  near  him.  In  order  to  connect 
with  the  highway  he  built  a  road  down  the  side  of 
the  ridge  on  which  his  house  stands.  That  road  cost 
him  a  thousand  dollars,  and  it  couldn't  be  used,  after 
all,  it  was  so  steep.  His  cellar,  too,  was  a  big  expense. 
It  is  blasted  out  of  the  solid  rock.  I'll  give  you  one 
more  instance  which  shows  his  way  of  managing.  He 
set  out  an  orchard,  and  it  was  doing  first-class;  but  a 
friend  of  his  told  him  it  ought  to  be  somewhere  else. 
So  he  pulled  it  up  and  changed  it  to  another  location." 

From  where  we  were  standing  we  could  see  one  of 


8o          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

these  handsome  modern  country  mansions  a  mile  or 
two  away  across  the  rude  uplands.  It  had  a  delightful 
perch  on  the  summit  of  a  lofty  hill  overlooking  the  lower 
hills-  and  wooded  glens  far  and  near,  and  its  white- 
walled  magnificence  with  Lombardy  poplars  standing 
sentinel  about  was  quite  enchanting. 

"A  woman  built  that  place,"  my  companion  said. 
"When  she  first  looked  around  in  this  region  she  selected 
a  spot  over  to  the  eastward  right  up  on  a  pine  knob; 
but  after  she'd  bought  it  she  discovered  that  it  had 
no  water.  She  paid  a  pretty  good  price  for  the  sake  of 
having  a  piece  of  pine  timber.  It  wouldn't  do  for  her 
house  site,  and  then  she  got  this  hill  yonder.  She  was 
a  genius — quite  a  poet;  but  in  the  course  of  a  few 
years  she  died,  and  her  sister  became  the  owner  of  the 
property.  This  sister  wa'n't  gifted  like  the  other 
woman,  and  yet  if  she  got  excited  you  might  think  she 
was  gifted,  too.  Let  her  have  the  idea  that  the  butcher 
was  charging  her  two  cents  a  pound  more  than  his  meat 
was  worth,  and  she'd  step  right  out  and  tell  him  what 
she  thought  of  such  doin's.  Oh,  she  was  fluent,  and  if 
he  tried  to  explain,  she  wouldn't  listen,  but  kept  straight 
on  till  she'd  said  her  say.  Then  she'd  turn  around  and 
march  into  the  house. 

"Look  down  there  toward  the  low  ground.  Just 
where  the  woods  end  is  a  big  field  with  cattle  in  it. 
Those  are  Mrs.  Churchill's  cows — that  is,  everybody 
calls  'em  her  cows.  She's  the  farmer  and  the  business 
man  of  the  family.  Mr.  Churchill  is  something  of  a 


A  New  Hampshire  Paradise  81 

politician,  and  a  smart,  nice  feller,  but  kind  of  aristo- 
cratic. He  tries  his  best  to  be  easy  and  companionable 
with  us  ordinary  people;  and  yet  that  aristocraticness 
crops  out  in  spite  of  thunder.  He  started  in  to  run  for 
governor  last  year,  and  he  rattled  the  thing  up  good,  I 
gorry!  They  defeated  him,  but  they  ain't  got  him 
quieted  yet. 

"His  house  is  over  in  the  woods  beyond  where  the 
cows  are,  and  it's  a  fine  one,  I  tell  you.  I  often  wonder 
that  he  didn't  buy  better  land  while  he  was  about  it. 
That  farm  is  nothing  but  an  old  sandbank,  anyway. 
Gracious!  you  can't  raise  a  decent  crop  on  it,  the  land 
is  so  terrible  poor,  and  in  some  places  the  soil  won't 
even  grass  over.  Yes,  and  this  dry  season  has  pretty 
much  knocked  Mrs.  Churchill  out  in  the  farming  line. 

"Of  course  all  these  new  folks  that  have  come  in  here 
are  very  different  in  their  tastes  and  interests  from  us, 
and  we  don't  associate  much  with  them  except  as  we 
do  work  about  their  places.  Now,  last  night  they  got 
up  an  entertainment  and  give  it  in  a  hall  in  the  village 
just  north  of  here.  Tickets  was  two  dollars  apiece,  and 
they  had  singing  and  tableaux  and  a  play;  and  every 
darn  thing  was  in  French.  'Twa'n't  for  the  world's 
people.  You  might  think  we'd  meet  'em  at  church, 
but  they  are  not  a  church-going  class — at  least  not  here 
in  the  country.  They  spend  Sundays  playing  cards 
or  doing  anything  else  that  happens  to  strike  them,  and 
Sunday  nights  they  have  parties. 

"In  one  way,  though,  they  have  really  taken  hold 


82          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

with  us — and  that  is  in  starting  a  village  industry 
business  among  our  women.  They've  got  the  thing 
going  and  it's  a  success.  Making  artistic  rugs  is  the 
main  work.  One  of  the  leaders  of  the  rug-making 
circle  lives  in  the  first  little  house  up  the  road.  Call  in 
and  ask  her  about  it.  She  c'n  tell  you  more'n  the 
Almighty,  and  there's  nothin'  pleases  her  so  much  as 
to  unwind." 

Another  of  the  local  dwellers  had  now  joined  us,  and 
he  asked,  "But  will  she  stop  when  she  gets  run  down?" 

"I  never  stayed  long  enough  to  find  out  that,"  the 
first  man  replied.  "However,  they've  got  quite  an 
industry  and  no  mistake." 

The  opinions  this  man  expressed  of  the  newcomers 
and  their  homes  and  habits  interested  me  scarcely  less 
than  the  region  itself,  and  when  I  met  others  of  the 
original  occupants  of  the  vicinity  I  pursued  the  sub- 
ject further.  In  particular  I  had  a  long  chat  one  even- 
ing with  a  man  I  came  across  fishing  in  a  little  millpond 
near  the  road  I  was  travelling.  First  he  enlightened 
me  as  to  the  luck  he  was  having. 

"I  ain't  ketchin'  nothin',"  he  said,  "and  I  wish  I'd 
gone  to  the  river.  The  children  are  always  teasin'  me 
to  go  there,  and  I  usually  get  a  nice  mess  to  bring 
home.  One  bass  I  ketched  weighed  five  pounds.  A 
few  weeks  ago  when  I  was  gettin'  more'n  I  wanted  to 
eat  I  put  a  pickerel  and  a  bass  into  the  watertub  at  the 
place  where  I  work.  Fish  are  a  drefful  nice  thing  in  a 
watertub.  They  keep  every  bug  and  worm  out.  If  a 


The  fisherman 


A  New  Hampshire  Paradise  83 

fly  gets  on  the  surface,  it  won't  be  no  time  before  you'll 
hear  that  water  splash,  and  the  fly's  eaten.  It's  fun 
to  see  them  fish  swim  round  in  there.  I  feed  'em  bread. 
That's  the  best  thing  for  fish;  but  once  in  a  while  I 
get  'em  some  shiners,  and  if  I  throw  in  just  a  single  one 
both  the  two  big  fish  get  hold  of  it,  and  they'll  fight 
terrible  before  either  one'll  give  up. 

"I  ain't  workin'  today,  and  I  s'pose  my  boss  won't 
like  it;  for  help  is  awful  skurce.  Since  these  city  people 
have  settled  here  a  laboring  man  needn't  never  be  out 
of  a  job  unless  he  wants  to  be,  and  he  is  sure  of  good 
wages  and  his  pay  every  Saturday  night.  They've 
made  a  big  change  in  the  look  of  things,  and  if  the  folks 
who  was  here  forty  years  ago  was  to  come  back  they 
wouldn't  hardly  know  where  they  was.  Those  old- 
time  houses  was  quite  different  from  what  you  see  now; 
but  the  people  who  lived  in  'em  knew  how  to  farm. 
We  don't  raise  any  such  quantities  of  corn  and  grain 
and  hay  as  they  did.  The  land  needs  takin'  up  and 
cultivating  once  in  four  or  five  years  to  get  real  good 
crops.  But  now  a  great  many  of  the  fields  are  mowed 
year  after  year  and  never  teched  with  a  plough.  All 
that  the  present  owners  care  to  do  is  just  to  keep  things 
about  so.  They  ain't  farmin'  to  make  money,  and  they 
don't  quarter  pay  expenses. 

"It  suits  'em  to  own  fine  cattle,  and  where  I'm 
workin'  they've  got  a  cow-stable  that's  better  and 
cleaner  than  lots  of  houses.  We  scrub  it  out  with 
brooms  and  water  every  day,  and  the  cows  have  their 


84          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

bags  washed  and  wiped  before  they  are  milked.  Each 
cow's  milk  is  kept  separate  and  weighed  and  recorded. 
The  herd  gets  the  best  of  feed,  and  the  milk  is  richer 
than  the  average  and  ought  to  bring  a  better  price,  but 
it  all  goes  to  the  creamery  at  five  cents  a  quart  same  as 
any  farmer's. 

"There's  a  lot  of  nice  chickens  and  turkeys  on  the 
place.  I  believe  the  turkeys  count  up  sixty-five  in  all. 
One  of  the  old  ones  stole  a  nest  and  hatched  out  sixteen. 
That  brood  is  kind  o'  wild  and  ain't  been  to  the  house 
yet.  Turkeys  are  great  hands  to  eat  grasshoppers  and 
crickets,  and  they'll  go  through  a  field  just  like  a  com- 
pany of  soldiers  keeping  abreast  of  each  other  and 
cleaning  up  every  insect  as  they  go.  When  we  are 
mowing,  the  machine  drives  the  bugs  and  things  toward 
the  center  of  the  field  and  they  are  very  thick  in  the 
patch  of  grass  that  still  stands  after  we  get  most  done. 
The  turkeys  seem  to  know  they  can  find  more  there 
than  anywhere  else,  and  when  we  near  the  finish  they 
take  a  swath  and  follow  just  as  fast  as  we  mow. 

"Very  few  of  the  farmers  I  used  to  know  are  here 
now — and  you  can't  blame  'em  for  lettin'  their  land  go 
when  they  was  gettin'  such  high  prices  for  it." 

The  most  notable  member  of  the  colony  which  dis- 
covered and  in  large  part  made  this  New  Hampshire 
countryside  the  paradise  that  it  is,  was  the  sculptor, 
Augustus  St.  Gaudens.  He  had  recently  died,  at  the 
time  of  my  visit,  and  I  heard  many  reminiscences 
illustrating  his  characteristics.  The  rural  folk  all  had 


A  New  Hampshire  Paradise  85 

a  warm  affection  for  him,  and  in  their  way  eulogized 
him  as  highly  as  could  the  sculptor's  intimate  associates 
in  his  own  realm. 

"St.  G.  was  a  number  one  man,"  a  Cornish  resident 
I  encountered  in  my  rambles  affirmed.  "He  never 
put  on  any  airs,  and  in  meeting  and  talking  with  the 
people  that  live  around  here  he  seemed  to  be  one  of  us. 
He  was  just  as  companionable  and  simple,  too,  with 
the  servants  who  worked  for  him,  and  often  they  come 
near  forgetting  he  was  their  employer.  I  recollect  how 
he  once  helped  some  servants  who'd  just  got  here, 
strangers  from  the  city,  to  find  their  way.  They  were 
walking  to  one  of  the  big  houses  where  they  were  goin' 
to  work,  and  when  they  got  there  they  told  how  they'd 
met  'a  real  nice  old  gentleman'  down  the  road  who  gave 
them  directions  through  the  woods.  That  nice  old 
gentleman  was  St.  Gaudens. 

"It  was  his  habit  to  have  his  own  servants  come  into 
his  studio  just  before  any  work  of  his  was  goin'  to  be 
shipped  away  so  they  could  see  it.  One  time  when 
everything  was  ready  to  take  down  a  new  statue,  and 
the  workmen  were  settin'  around  waitin',  two  or  three 
of  the  maids  was  busy  in  the  house  and  couldn't  come 
right  then.  Some  of  Mr.  St.  Gauden's  family  thought 
it  was  pretty  expensive  waiting  with  the  pay  of  the 
workmen  running  on,  and  that  the  job  ought  to  be 
started  at  once;  but  the  sculptor  wouldn't  hear  of 
touching  a  thing  till  all  the  servants  could  get  there  to 
see  the  statue. 


86          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

"He  was  very  patient,  usually,  and  he'd  hear  the 
most  long-winded  caller  to  the  end  without  showing  a 
sign  of  irritation,  when  I  knew  he  was  so  nervous  he 
couldn't  hardly  hold  himself  together.  But  he  wa'n't 
afraid  to  speak  in  meeting  if  he  got  riled,  and  those 
who  knew  him  at  all  knew  enough  not  to  speak  to  him 
when  he  was  studying. 

"His  work  brought  him  a  good  deal  of  money;  but 
I  guess  he  spent  it  most  as  fast  as  it  came  to  him.  He 
was  always  doing  things  over  about  his  place.  If  he 
thought  some  stone  steps  would  improve  a  terrace,  he 
got  seventeen  or  eighteen  men  and  had  the  steps  put 
in.  Then  pretty  soon  he'd  think  they'd  be  better  some- 
where else,  and  he'd  have  his  gang  of  men  come  and 
tear  up  where  he  wanted  the  steps  moved  to,  and  after 
the  moving  was  done  they'd  turf  over  the  old  place. 
That's  the  way  things  would  go,  and  it  was  the  same 
in  his  studio — he  was  sure  to  be  a  great  while  finishing  a 
piece  of  work  because  he  was  forever  thinkin'  he  could 
improve  it. 

"There  never  was  a  man  more  generous.  For  in- 
stance, he  was  comin'  home  from  Windsor  one  winter 
day,  and  he  drove  along  to  where  a  poor  family  lived 
and  saw  four  of  the  children  sliding  down  hill.  But 
they  only  had  one  sled,  and  he  says,  'Is  that  all  the  sled 
you've  got?' 

"They  says,  'Yes;'  and  what  does  he  do  but  turn 
smack  around  and  go  back  to  Windsor  and  buy  three 
sleds  so  those  children  would  have  one  apiece. 


Old-time  natives 


A  New  Hampshire  Paradise  87 

"Then  I  know  one  time  when  a  man  who'd  worked 
for  him  a  number  of  years  was  goin'  to  move  away,  and 
St.  G.  says  to  him,  'I've  never  felt  as  if  I  paid  you 
enough;'  and  he  took  his  check-book  and  wrote  him 
a  check  for  one  hundred  dollars. 

"In  the  latter  part  of  his  life  he  hadn't  been  well  for 
a  long  time  and  he  suffered  a  good  deal  of  pain;  but 
when  he  first  come  here  he  was  as  well  as  any  one,  and 
he'd  go  out  and  play  ball  and  was  one  of  the  boys 
among  boys.  He  never  complained,  no  matter  how  he 
suffered.  One  peculiar  thing  was  that  he  was  always 
cold,  poor  man.  There  might  be  a  great  big  fire  in  the 
fireplace  and  the  furnace  goin'  for  all  it  was  worth, 
and  his  wife  would  be  roasted,  and  yet  he  was  cold. 

"Well,  he's  gone  now,  and  his  body  was  cremated, 
and  his  ashes  are  buried  over  in  Windsor.  He  wanted 
'em  sprinkled  over  the  flower-garden;  but  you  know,  if 
they'd  done  that  they  never  could  rent  the  place.  Yes, 
he's  gone,  and  he  was  a  number  one  man.  I  don't 
suppose  we  shall  ever  see  his  like  here  again." 

NOTES. — Cornish  is  in  a  region  that  is  distinctly  rustic,  far  from 
any  big  town,  and  with  much  in  life  and  nature  around  that  is  raw 
and  half  wild;  yet  here  you  find  many  magnificent  estates  of  people 
of  wealth  and  fame  including  statesmen,  authors,  and  artists,  and 
it  has  even  been  the  summer  home  of  a  president  of  the  United 
States.  Mount  Ascutney,  3,320  feet  high,  is  one  of  the  striking 
features  of  the  vicinity.  Twenty  miles  north  is  Hanover,  the  seat 
of  Dartmouth  College,  where  Daniel  Webster  graduated.  The 
main  roads  in  the  region  are  good  gravel  or  dirt.  The  less  said  about 
the  others  the  better. 


ON  THE  SHORES  OF  LAKE  CHAMPLAIN 

WHEN  I  looked  on  the  map  and  saw,  adjacent 
to  the  Vermont  shore  of  the  lake,  Grand  Isle 
with  the  towns  of  North  Hero  and  South 
Hero  on  it,  the  romantic  appeal  of  those  names  was 
irresistible,  and  thither  I  journeyed.  I  soon  learned 
that  "Grand"  referred  to  size,  not  scenery,  and  I  failed 
entirely  to  discover  the  significance  of  the  two  "Heroes"; 
yet,  my  acquaintance  with  the  undulating,  rich-soiled, 
well-tilled  island  was  nevertheless  very  satisfying.  The 
place  I  chose  to  stop  at  was  a  rustic  village  on  one  of  the 
ridges  where  the  scattered  homes  reposed  amid  shade 
trees  and  orchards.  I  lodged  in  a  stone-walled  old 
hotel  at  a  cross-roads,  and  just  across  the  way  was  a 
wooden  store  before  which  a  number  of  farm  teams 
were  usually  to  be  seen  hitched  while  their  owners 
traded  inside  and  swapped  the  news  of  the  neighbor- 
hood. Most  of  the  teams  had  been  driven  in  from  the 
region  surrounding  to  bring  milk  to  the  creamery,  for 
dairying  is  a  chief  source  of  income.  Great  herds  of 
cows  grazed  in  the  pastures,  and  alfalfa  was  growing  on 
many  broad  fields  to  furnish  feed  for  them. 

One  afternoon  I   called  on   an  old   resident  of  the 
vicinity,  a  man  eighty  years  of  age.     While  we  talked 


On  the  Shores  of  Lake  Champlain  89 

he  sat  by  the  dining-room  stove  with  a  cat  in  his  lap. 
His  wife,  who  had  been  blind  and  deaf  for  several  years, 
presently  came  feeling  her  way  to  him  from  the  next 
room.  She  had  somehow  sensed  the  fact  that  he  had  a 
caller,  and  wanted  to  know  who  was  there.  He  replied 
in  a  sign  language  on  her  fingers,  and  she  went  back  to 
the  other  room. 

I  questioned  my  host  about  conditions  on  the  island 
as  he  had  known  them  in  his  youth,  and  he  said :  "  When 
I  was  a  boy  this  country  was  much  wilder  than  it  is 
now  and  lynx  still  lived  in  the  woods.  They  wa'n't 
afraid  to  tackle  sheep  and  made  considerable  trouble 
for  us.  A  lynx  was  an  ugly  feller  to  handle  if  you  got 
him  cornered.  Once  our  geese  got  away,  and  I  went  to 
the  lake  lookin'  for  'em.  While  I  was  there  I  saw  a 
lynx  slide  down  the  rocks  to  the  edge  of  the  water,  and 
I  watched  him  lickin'  it  up.  Afterward  he  ran  back  up 
the  rocks.  I  wa'n't  old  enough  to  be  out  on  a  hunt, 
with  a  gun,  but  some  of  the  men  follered  the  lynx  and 
shot  him  in  a  swamp.  Later  they  had  him  at  the  store 
stuffed. 

"I  can  recollect  too,  when  I  was  a  youngster,  we  had 
quite  a  stir  about  a  wolf.  It  was  in  winter,  and  they 
chased  him  with  hounds  over  the  ice  to  another  island, 
but  he  got  away.  There  used  to  be  lots  of  eagles 
around,  and  we'd  see  'em  flying  day  after  day,  or  sitting 
on  a  dry  tree.  We  still  have  a  fair  number  of  foxes  and 
they  do  a  bad  business  for  people  that  keep  turkeys. 

"Great  flocks  of  wild  geese  used  to  fly  over,   and 


90          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

they'd  stop  in  the  marshes  and  buckwheat  fields. 
When  I'd  be  out  milking  the  cows  in  the  yard  in  the 
spring,  I  could  hardly  look  up  without  seeing  ducks  or 
geese  going  north.  I  often  killed  'em.  Sometimes  we'd 
ketch  'em  alive  and  tame  'em  to  put  out  as  decoys. 
One  man  here  had  a  tame  wild  goose  that  went  away  in 
the  fall  with  a  wild  flock,  and  after  two  years  it  come 
back.  They  always  fly  in  a  V  shape  with  the  old  gander 
ahead.  If  you  can  shoot  him  first  you  have  a  chance 
to  fire  several  times  at  the  others.  They're  all  mixed 
up  and  keep  flying  round  and  round  to  get  another 
leader.  While  they're  travelling  they're  sure  to  be 
squawking,  and  when  they  plan  to  light  they're  still 
squawking  as  they  circle  about  to  see  if  the  coast  is 
clear.  But  as  soon  as  they've  lit  they're  all  still.  If 
they're  in  a  buckwheat  field  you  won't  hear  a  sound, 
and  the  old  gander  will  be  watchin'  every  minute  with 
his  head  up  while  the  rest  are  eatin'. 

"Our  farm  ran  to  the  lake,  and  we  had  a  splendid 
fishing-ground.  When  there  come  a  lowery  day  we  and 
some  of  the  neighbors  would  go  down  and  draw  a 
seine.  We'd  perhaps  take  along  a  two  gallon  jug  of 
hard  cider,  and  we'd  have  quite  a  visit  and  a  good  time. 
I  don't  recall  that  the  cider  had  any  bad  effect.  To  get 
drunk  on  cider  a  feller  would  have  to  be  quite  an  h-o-g. 
He'd  have  to  swill  down  a  lot  of  it.  We  caught  pike 
and  pickerel  and  muscallonge  and  shiners  and  suckers, 
and  we'd  get  perch  by  the  quantity.  It  wouldn't  be 
possible  to  make  any  such  hauls  now.  The  law  has  got 


On  the  Shores  of  Lake  Champlain  91 

the  thing  cornered  down  so  you  can't  ketch  small  fish, 
but  the  lake  is  pretty  well  drained  of  'em,  big  and  little. 
We  threw  back  what  we  didn't  want.  Some  we  salted 
down.  We  still  eat  a  good  many  lake  fish,  but  there's 
none  of  'em  taste  as  good  to  me  as  they  did  when  I  was 
a  boy. 

"I  think  I'll  have  to  take  a  pull  at  my  pipe.  I  smoke 
occasionally  and  sometimes  oftener.  Seven  or  eight 
years  ago  I  smoked  one  cigaret.  I've  never  wanted  any 
since.  That  cured  me. 

"Talking  about  changes,  we  used  to  get  our  mail 
once  a  week.  Later,  when  we  got  it  twice  a  week  we 
felt  as  if  we  lived  in  the  city.  Now  we  have  rural  de- 
livery every  day,  and  I'm  expectin'  the  next  thing 
they'll  send  some  one  along  to  read  our  letters  to  us. 

"The  main  part  of  farming  here  in  my  young  days 
was  keeping  sheep.  Lots  of  farmers  had  two  or  three 
hundred  and  sheared  'em  for  their  wool.  Now  we've 
shifted  to  cows,  and  that's  been  a  big  thing  for  us.  It's 
knocked  the  mortgage  off  from  a  good  many  farms. 
Our  cream  is  taken  to  the  cooperative  creamery,  and 
when  our  cows  get  old  we  sell  'em  for  beef,  and  there's 
a  rendering  company  that  will  pay  us  something  for 
our  sick  cows.  The  meat  of  those  sick  cows  ain't  sup- 
posed to  be  eaten,  but  I  guess  some  of  it  gets  mixed  in 
with  good  meat  and  goes  where  it  hadn't  ought  to  go. 

"Of  course  not  everybody's  prosperous.  Some  owe 
money  that  they  can't  pay  and  drop  behind  a  little 
every  year.  When  they  get  going  that  way  they're 


92          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

pretty  sure  to  have  a  slide  into  bankruptcy.  The 
people  they  owe  get  uneasy.  If  a  man  is  gaining  and 
going  up  it's  all  right,  but  if  he's  going  down  it's  all 
wrong. 

"One  cause  of  failures  is  this  auto  business.  A  man 
working  for  a  salary  in  such  a  place  as  Burlington  over 
here  on  the  mainland  will  have  a  little  home  that's 
paid  for  and  he's  quite  comfortably  fixed.  But  he 
concludes  that  he's  got  to  have  an  auto  to  keep  up  with 
the  procession.  So  he  mortgages  his  place  and  buys 
one.  Then  he  has  to  take  a  day  off  here  and  a  day  off 
there  to  make  trips  in  his  new  machine.  By  and  by  his 
employer  says,  'Well,  I'll  have  to  look  for  another  feller 
to  fill  this  man's  place;'  and  he  loses  his  job.  In  town 
and  country  both  there's  a  good  many  people  with  autos 
who  wish  they  had  their  money  back.  It  ain't  the  first 
cost  that  counts.  It's  the  wear  and  tear  and  the  expense 
for  ensilage — no,  that  ain't  the  word.  I  mean  gasolene. 
It  balked  me  just  for  the  second.  My  mind  don't  work 
as  good  as  it  used  to. 

"Have  you  noticed  our  apple  orchards?  This  is  a 
great  region  for  apples,  but  the  tent  caterpillars  and 
little  green  forest  worm  are  raising  the  mischief  with  the 
trees.  The  leaves  are  about  all  gone  and  the  orchards 
look  as  if  a  fire  had  been  through  'em.  They've  mostly 
turned  into  butterflies  now  and  quit  eating,  but  they've 
left  their  mark  and  they're  goin'  to  play  the  trees  out. 

"The  railroad  has  built  causeways  to  get  on  and  off 
the  island,  and  we  go  across  in  teams  at  the  sandbar 


On  the  Shores  of  Lake  Champlain  93 

bridge.  We've  got  pretty  good  connections  with  the 
rest  of  the  world  except  at  the  end  of  winter.  Then, 
after  the  ice  gets  rotten  enough  to  break  up,  it  will 
sometimes  shove,  and  the  ice  and  floodwood  will  be 
piled  up  on  the  causeway  at  the  bridge  in  such  masses 
that  the  road  is  blocked  for  three  weeks.  Before  the 
bridge  was  built  we  would  ford  the  bar  in  the  spring 
when  the  water  was  so  high  that  the  horse  had  to  wade 
for  a  mile,  and  we'd  put  our  feet  on  the  dashboard  to 
keep  'em  dry.  I  didn't  want  to  be  driving  through  after 
dark  very  much.  If  you  got  to  one  side  a  little  it  was 
dangerous.  In  summer  I've  been  across  when  the  water 
was  so  low  that  I  could  wade  it  with  such  a  pair  of 
boots  on  as  I'm  wearing  now. 

"Most  every  one  is  rigged  out  with  shoes  these  days, 
but  I  ain't  ashamed  to  have  anybody  know  that  I 
wear  boots.  People  say  to  me,  'Why,  you  wear  boots 
yet!'  and  I  say,  'Yes,  I  was  born  with  boots  on.' 

"I  like  'em  better  than  shoes.  They're  handier.  I 
can't  get  down  to  lace  up  shoes,  and  besides  if  you  wear 
shoes  on  a  farm  some  obstruction  is  getting  into  'em 
every  little  while,  and  the  thistles  prick  through  your 
pantlegs.  But  I  don't  know  as  I've  seen  anybody 
who's  stuck  to  boots  as  I  have,  and  there's  only  one 
place  in  Burlington  where  they  can  be  got.  Every  one 
wore  'em  in  old  times.  Even  the  girls  wore  'em  by 
spells  going  to  school  through  the  snow  in  winter  and 
the  slush  in  spring. 

"Once  a  year  a  shoemaker,  on  his  rounds  about  the 


94          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

neighborhood,  would  move  into  a  room  of  our  house 
and  make  boots  for  the  whole  family.  We  had  one 
shoemaker  here  in  town  who  couldn't  be  beat  in  New 
York  City,  and  he  had  some  very  stylish  customers 
who  lived  large  places  at  a  distance — fellers  that  looked 
just  as  if  they'd  come  out  of  a  bandbox.  He'd  fit  'em 
with  boots  that  were  so  tight  they'd  break  three  or  four 
pairs  of  galluses  tryin'  to  get  'em  on. 

"We  had  a  good  deal  of  Canadian  help  in  summer. 
Men  would  drive  down  from  Canada  in  a  two-wheeled 
cart  drawn  by  one  horse.  There'd  be  six  or  eight  of 
'em  standing  up  or  sitting  around  on  the  edges  of  the 
cart.  They'd  get  along  any  way  to  reach  the  States 
and  work  four  or  five  weeks  for  a  dollar  a  day.  Now 
we  have  to  pay  two  dollars  a  day.  You  pretty  near 
have  to  pay  a  man  if  you  stop  him  to  inquire  if  he'll 
work  for  you.  They're  educated  to  get  as  big  prices 
as  they  can  and  give  as  little  as  possible  in  return.  We 
used  to  go  out  and  in  half  an  hour  hire  half  a  dozen  men. 
Now  you  can't  hire  one  man  in  half  a  dozen  days.  The 
laboring  day  was  calculated  from  sunrise  to  sundown. 
At  present,  if  you  get  a  man  out  before  seven  o'clock 
you  have  to  pull  him  out,  but  we  expect  him  to  keep  at 
his  work  more  steadily  than  if  his  hours  were  longer; 
and  there  ain't  no  use  talking — a  feller  can't  hold  out 
from  sunrise  to  sundown  in  a  long  summer  day  and  do 
good  work.  The  men  had  to  have  a  lunch  in  the  middle 
of  the  morning,  and  again  in  the  middle  of  the  after- 
noon. I've  carried  many  a  lunch  to  the  mowing  field 


On  the  Shores  of  Lake  Champlain  95 

when  I  was  a  boy.  The  food  was  put  into  a  market 
basket  or  wooden  pail  together  with  a  bottle  of  liquor 
and  a  couple  of  tumblers.  Toward  ten  o'clock  in  the 
morning  a  worker  would  sit  down  and  eat  a  doughnut 
and  a  good  slice  of  bread  buttered  and  doubled  up,  and 
drink  a  tumbler  of  liquor.  That  would  hold  him  to- 
gether until  dinner  time.  Now  and  then  there  was  hot 
biscuit  for  lunch  and  perhaps  cake. 

"Mowing  was  done  with  scythes.  All  the  men 
would  mow  in  the  morning  until  the  dew  got  off. 
There'd  be  six  or  seven  of  'em,  and  at  the  end  of  a 
swath  they'd  stop  and  whet  their  scythes  and  tell  a 
story  or  two  and  have  a  laugh  before  they  went  on. 
We  had  more  fun  then  working  than  we  do  now.  Some 
of  the  men  mowed  all  day,  but  most  of  'em  quit  mowing 
after  a  while  to  get  the  hay  dry  and  into  the  barn.  It 
was  quite  a  job  to  spread  out  the  swaths  that  were  left 
by  the  mowers.  Furthermore  all  the  hay  had  to  be 
raked  by  hand.  While  I  was  a  youngster  they  sent  me 
ahead  to  rake  the  first  swath.  Two  fellers  raking  on 
each  side  completed  what  was  called  a  windrow,  and 
the  hay  in  the  windrows  had  to  be  bunched  up  and 
pitched  onto  the  two-wheeled  ox-carts. 

"Everybody  used  to  have  oxen,  but  now  I  don't 
know  of  a  yoke  of  oxen  in  town.  An  ox- team  will  do  lots 
of  work  if  properly  managed.  It  will  do  as  much 
ploughing  as  a  span  of  horses.  But  if  you  use  the  gad 
too  much  and  get  your  oxen  vexed  and  they  don't  know 
what  to  do  they'll  be  mean  same  as  a  balky  horse. 


96          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

Some  of  our  horses  and  cattle  are  superior  to  the  human 
animals  that  own  'em.  I  saw  a  man  pounding  a  horse 
the  other  day,  and  I  said  to  myself,  'If  I  was  that  horse 
I'd  show  the  feller  how  the  calks  were  fastened  on  my 
shoes,'  and  it  would  have  been  serving  him  right. 

"Before  the  railroads  got  so  numerous  there  used  to 
be  a  great  deal  of  traffic  on  the  lake.  The  water  was 
dotted  with  schooners  and  sloops  up  to  twenty-five 
years  ago.  You  couldn't  look  out  on  the  lake  without 
seeing  ten  or  a  dozen  of  'em.  Now  we  don't  see  one  a 
week.  Most  of  the  crossing  at  the  ferries  was  done  in 
what  we  called  old  scow  boats.  They  was  rigged  with 
a  big  sail.  We  get  some  heavy  waves  on  the  broad  part 
of  the  lake,  and  I've  even  known  one  of  those  flat- 
bottomed  scow  boats  to  be  upset. 

"Most  of  our  teaming  in  winter  was  done  on  the  ice. 
The  ice  made  a  good  road,  and  the  horses  would  slide 
right  along.  The  lake  froze  from  shore  to  shore,  but 
here  where  it  is  so  wide  there  was  only  crossing  for  a 
few  days  or  weeks,  however  cold  the  season.  Horses 
often  broke  through,  but  they  seldom  drowned.  If  a 
man  was  alone  and  his  horses  went  in  he'd  have  to 
wait  for  help,  and  about  all  he  could  do  was  to  keep  the 
horses'  heads  up.  When  a  man  on  shore  heard  any  one 
calling  and  saw  that  a  team  was  in  trouble  he'd  hitch 
up,  put  a  plank  in  his  cutter,  and  go  to  the  rescue. 
Sometimes  those  would  come  who  were  so  scairt  that 
they  were  worse  than  no  one  at  all.  If  you  could  get 
the  horses'  for'ard  feet  up  on  the  ice  they'd  usually 


On  the  Shores  of  Lake  Champlain  97 

struggle  out  themselves.  Often  we'd  choke  'em  a  little 
and  get  'em  strangled  to  make  'em  throw  themselves 
out.  But  if  the  ice  was  rotten  or  springy  they  were 
apt  to  slip  back  in.  The  ice  was  weak  around  the  reefs, 
and  we  would  keep  away  from  them.  There  ain't  but 
very  little  teaming  now,  and  I  didn't  hear  of  only  two 
teams  getting  in  last  winter. 

"When  I  was  a  boy  'twas  a  main  travelled  road 
through  here.  That  made  quite  a  market  for  the  hotels, 
and  there  was  lots  of  doings  at  the  corners.  Travellers 
couldn't  get  by  a  hotel  without  stopping  for  a  drink. 
They  had  to  have  it  in  winter  to  get  warmed  up  on, 
and  in  summer  to  get  cooled  off  on.  They  drank  gin 
or  brandy  or  whatever  their  thirst  called  for,  but  most 
of  what  was  known  as  'new  rum.'  That  was  a  little 
cheaper  than  the  other  kinds  of  liquor,  and  the  stores 
bought  it  by  the  puncheon,  and  people  bought  it  by 
the  jugful.  Everybody  drank.  Even  the  minister 
wasn't  afraid  to  tip  the  tumbler. 

"I  can  recollect  long  strings  of  horses  from  Canada 
going  through  here  to  be  sold  every  winter.  Usually 
there'd  be  twenty  or  thirty  horses  in  a  string,  but  some- 
times there  was  so  many  they'd  reach  for  pretty  near 
half  a  mile.  Their  halters  was  tied  to  a  rope  that 
extended  from  the  leader  to  the  last  horse.  A  man  rode 
the  leader,  and  several  boys  were  scattered  along  on 
the  horses,  and  a  sleigh  follered  behind. 

"You  notice  we  have  a  good  many  zigzag  rail  fences 
around  our  fields,  but  we  don't  make  any  new  fences 


98          Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

of  that  sort.  Rails  are  getting  scarce  nowadays. 
They're  split  out  of  cedar,  and  there  ain't  much  cedar 
growing.  It's  a  bother  even  to  get  enough  cedar  posts 
for  wire  fences.  Every  field  large  and  small  used  to  be 
fenced,  and  we  had  to  keep  a  good  fence  along  the 
road  because  people  let  their  cattle  run  and  feed  in  the 
highways.  There'd  be  gates  across  the  roads  in  some 
places  that  travellers  had  to  open  and  shut.  On  either 
side  of  the  rail  fences  at  the  angles  a  stake  was  driven 
down,  and  a  short  board  with  holes  bored  in  it  was 
slipped  over  the  ends  of  each  pair  of  stakes  to  hold  'em 
in  place,  and  a  top  rail  rested  on  this  cap. 

"We  generally  made  our  hog  pasture  fence  of  boards. 
Hogs  will  root  under  most  any  fence,  and  they'll 
squeeze  pretty  hard  on  a  board  when  they  get  started. 
Those  old-time  hogs  was  great  runners.  Now  what 
we  call  a  hog  decent  to  be  e't  is  so  fat  he  can't  do  much 
running.  But  I've  seen  hogs  that  we  wanted  to 
butcher  get  away  and  run  all  over  the  garden.  We'd 
set  the  dog  onto  'em  to  help  tire  'em  out  so  we  could 
ketch  'em.  Once  a  Frenchman  who  was  working  for  us 
grabbed  hold  of  a  hog  by  the  ear  when  it  started  to  run 
and  got  right  on  its  back.  But  it  ran  through  a  goose- 
berry bush.  You  know  what  those  are.  They've  got 
thorns  on  'em.  The  hog  came  out  first  best  and  the  man 
got  well  scratched.  He  let  go  and  talked  all  kinds  of 
language  for  a  short  time. 

"A  poor  line  fence  makes  trouble  for  you  unless  you 
have  a  pretty  good  lot  of  philosophy  to  fall  back  on. 


work  in  the  garden 


On  the  Shores  of  Lake  Champlain  99 

People  generally  cal'erate  to  look  after  their  fences  now, 
but  in  earlier  days  they  often  neglected  'em,  and  their 
cows  or  sheep  or  horses  would  do  damage  on  their 
neighbors'  premises.  That  stirred  up  feeling,  and  there 
was  jawing  and  cursing  and  perhaps  a  fight.  Some 
never  got  over  it.  Such  affairs  made  work  for  the 
lawyers. 

"We  always  had  a  lawyer  in  town  ever  since  I  was 
knee  high  to  a  johnnycake  until  about  thirty  years 
ago.  If  he  saw  a  little  disturbance  starting  between 
neighbors  he'd  work  on  the  one  that  he  thought  would 
crowd  the  most  so  as  to  get  a  fee  out  of  the  row.  While 
we  had  lawyers  there  was  always  lots  of  quarrelling, 
but  when  they  quit  doing  business  here  it  cured  the 
thing  right  up. 

"The  cases  were  tried  on  the  island,  and  Pixley,  the 
constable,  had  to  collect  the  juries.  One  day  I  see  his 
old  sorrel  mare  comin'  up  the  road,  and  I  knew,  just  as 
well  as  if  he  had  telephoned,  that  he  was  goin'  to  sum- 
mon me  for  a  little  petty  suit.  So  I  went  in  and  sat 
down  in  my  shirtsleeves  with  my  boots  off  and  my  feet 
on  the  stove  hearth  and  an  old  tippet  round  my  throat 
as  if  I  was  played  out.  Pixley  stopped  and  come  in, 
but  I  couldn't  talk  out  loud.  All  my  answering  was 
done  by  whispering  or  nodding.  Well,  I  didn't  lie,  but 
you  might  just  as  well  call  it  that. 

"'I  declare!'  Pixley  said,  'you  got  an  awful  cold,' 
and  he  went  off  to  look  for  some  one  else. 

"By  and  by  I  hitched  up  and  went  to  see  the  case 


ioo        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

tried.  I  left  my  horse  under  the  store  shed  and  walked 
into  court.  The  constable  saw  I'd  tricked  him,  and  he 
said,  'Next  time  I  go  after  you  you'll  come  even  if  I 
have  to  take  you  right  out  of  bed.' 

"  'Pixley,'  I  said,  'you  ain't  big  enough/ 

"We  lived  rather  more  than  two  miles  from  the 
church,  and  a  load  of  us  would  drive  there  to  meeting 
in  a  three-seated  wagon.  The  church  pews  were  regular 
pens.  If  we  had  'em  in  a  barn  we'd  call  'em  box  stalls. 
The  walls  were  so  high  that  when  I  was  a  little  shaver 
and  wanted  to  make  faces  at  any  other  boy  or  girl  I  had 
to  stand  up  on  the  seat  to  look  over.  The  pews  had 
doors  and  the  last  person  in  had  to  turn  a  button  to 
keep  the  door  shut.  There  were  no  cushions — nothing 
but  the  bare  boards,  unless  you  carried  a  shawl  or  some- 
thing to  sit  on. 

The  minister  preached  a  sermon  in  the  morning,  and 
then  he  had  to  give  us  another  in  the  afternoon,  and 
there  wa'n't  hardly  a  person  in  a  hundred  could  digest 
what  there  was  in  one.  When  those  old-fashioned 
ministers  preached  a  sermon  they  couldn't  usually  get 
along  without  bringin'  in  about  hell  fire  two  or  three 
times.  That  would  scare  some,  but  others  would  have 
to  laugh  right  in  church,  and  people  used  to  joke  on 
the  subject.  If  a  man  said:  'I  ain't  goin'  to  winter 
here.  I'm  goin'  to  get  where  it's  warmer;'  some  one 
else  would  say,  'Well,  you  wait  a  little  while  and  you'll 
be  where  it's  warmer.' 

"Between  the  two  services  there  was  time  for  Sunday- 


On  the  Shores  of  Lake  Champlain  101 

school  and  lunch.  The  people  who  came  from  a  dis- 
tance ate  their  cake  and  cheese  and  whatever  else  they 
brought  in  the  vestibule  or  right  in  the  pews,  but  the 
children  would  perhaps  take  a  handful  of  the  food  and 
go  outdoors  to  eat. 

"We  kept  our  minister  for  fifty  years.  He  could 
have  got  four  or  five  times  what  we  paid,  but  he  said  he 
was  one  of  us  and  wouldn't  leave  for  the  big  offerings. 
For  funeral  sermons  or  anything  of  that  kind  he  was 
in  demand  all  around.  He  was  one  of  the  flowery  kind, 
and  even  if  the  dead  person  had  been  mean  and  done 
bad  things  he'd  smooth  it  over,  or  if  the  feller  had  never 
amounted  to  anything  the  preacher  would  make  him 
out  to  be  quite  a  man,  and  that  caused  the  man's  friends 
like  the  preacher  better  than  ever.  He'd  fix  it  so  nice  in 
speaking  about  the  deceased  in  the  funeral  sermon  that 
though  parties  were  there  who'd  been  quarrelling  with 
the  departed  tears  would  start  from  their  eyes  just  the 
same.  Theminister  lived  to  be  a  very  old  man,  and  itwas 
only  a  few  years  ago  he  had  the  sickness  that  upset  him. 

''The  island  used  to  be  full  of  children,  but  the  young 
people  as  they  grew  up  went  West,  and  they  went  South, 
and  they  went  to  the  towns.  Some  have  probably  done 
a  good  deal  better  than  if  they'd  stayed,  and  yet  I  think 
the  majority  would  have  been  fully  as  independent  and 
enjoyed  themselves  more  if  they'd  continued  to  live  on 
the  farms  here." 

Another  acquaintance  who  furnished  me  with  con- 
siderable information  was  an  elderly  French  fisherman 


IO2        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

whose  home  was  a  queer  little  shack  in  some  bushes 
near  the  shore.  The  structure  was  about  six  by  eight 
feet  with  a  tarred  paper  roof.  Near  by  was  a  garden  in 
which  the  fisherman  raised  a  few  vegetables,  and  just 
over  an  adjacent  fence  was  an  apple  orchard  much 
devastated  by  worms. 

"I  had  to  kill  them  worms  here  all  day  one  spell,"  he 
said.  "They're  kind  of  a  brown  color  and  an  inch  and  a 
half  long,  and  I  guess  they  got  a  thousand  legs  on  'em. 
They  crawled  everywhere.  I'd  see  'em  as  I  was  goin' 
along  the  road,  and  I'd  step  on  'em.  They're  a  mean 
thing,  but  now  they've  chawed  and  gone  away.  People 
say  they  change  into  butterflies,  but  I  don't  know 
whether  they  do  or  not." 

While  we  were  chatting  rain  began  to  fall,  and  the 
man  invited  me  into  his  hut.  I  could  just  stand  up 
under  the  ridge.  The  walls  and  roof  boards  were  pasted 
over  with  wallpaper.  A  bed  was  built  in  across  the 
back,  and  I  sat  down  on  that.  In  the  corner  at  one  side 
of  the  door  was  a  tiny  stove  tawny  with  rust,  and  near 
it  was  a  little  pile  of  firewood  and  a  chair.  There  was 
a  shelf  full  of  crockery,  and  there  were  fishlines,  a  gun, 
a  lantern,  a  mirror,  and  a  clock  that  ticked  loudly. 
Light  was  admitted  through  two  small  sliding  windows 
under  the  eaves.  The  man  said  that  he  prepared  for 
winter  by  banking  up  around  the  outside  with  dirt  to 
the  bottom  of  the  windows.  A  trap  door  in  the  floor 
allowed  him  to  reach  down  into  a  cellar  hole  where  he 
kept  his  potatoes,  fresh  meat,  bread,  milk,  and  butter. 


A  rugged  bit  oj  shore 


On  the  Shores  of  Lake  Champlain  103 

Presently  a  boy  from  a  neighboring  house  came  in 
and  occupied  the  chair.  The  man  sat  on  a  box  beside 
the  stove.  He  had  started  a  fire,  for  the  day  was  chilly, 
and  the  stove  drew  the  air  in  through  its  damper  with 
noisy  vigor.  "Come,  don't  growl  too  hard,"  the  fisher- 
man admonished. 

Then  he  turned  to  me  and  said:  "I  feel  kind  o' 
sleepy.  A  friend  who's  got  a  farm  up  the  lane  was 
callin'  on  me  last  night.  'Bout  ten  o'clock  he  began 
to  say,  'Well,  I  guess  I'll  go  home,'  but  it  was  after 
midnight  when  he  left.  I  was  sorry  for  his  wife.  She 
always  sets  up  till  he  comes  in.  He  spent  the  whole 
time  here  talkin'  about  himself — stuck  to  that  one  sub- 
ject like  a  puppy  to  a  root — and  it's  just  the  same  every 
call  he  makes  on  me.  According  to  his  tell  he  could  do 
more  work  than  a  man  when  he  was  thirteen,  but  I've 
never  seen  him  exerting  himself  much." 

"This  rain  will  give  me  another  chance  to  pick  night 
crawlers,"  the  boy  remarked. 

"What  are  those?"  I  asked. 

"Some  call  'em  angleworms,"  he  replied.  "We  had  a 
good  rain  yesterday,  but  before  that  there  was  a  long 
dry  spell,  and  you  could  dig  for  an  hour  and  not  get 
enough  crawlers  to  fish  half  a  day.  But  last  night  I  got 
a  quart  in  ten  minutes.  They  always  come  out  after 
dark  when  the  ground  is  wet,  and  you  can  begin  to  pick 
by  eight  o'clock  on  the  road  or  any  land  that  ain't 
covered  with  growing  things.  The  garden  is  the  best 
place.  We  go  after  'em  with  a  lantern  and  a  can.  They 


104        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

have  about  an  inch  still  in  their  hole,  and  you've  got 
to  grab  quick  or  they  crawl  back  in.  So  we  walk  careful 
and  take  care  not  to  jar  the  ground  and  scare  'em.  We 
can  sell  'em  for  from  twenty-five  cents  to  fifty  cents  a 
quart  to  the  campers.  They  go  like  hotcakes. 

"The  campers  are  always  wantin'  bait.  After  harvest 
we  get  crickets  for  'em.  We  find  the  crickets  under  the 
stones.  Sometimes  we  pick  grasshoppers  and  sell  'em 
to  the  campers  at  fifty  cents  a  hundred.  They'd  rather 
have  those  than  any  flies  they  can  buy  in  the  stores." 

"White  grubs  are  great  bait  for  bass,"  the  fisherman 
affirmed.  "Once  in  a  while  I  go  in  the  swamps  after 
little  green  frogs.  By  gol!  it's  quite  a  job.  They're 
lively  hoppers,  and  they're  such  a  size  and  color  that 
you  got  to  keep  your  nose  almost  on  the  ground  to  see 
'em.  The  campers  are  glad  to  get  'em  at  three  cents 
apiece. 

"There's  some  big  fish  in  the  lake.  I've  known 
pickerel  to  weigh  twenty  pounds,  and  I've  helped  ketch 
a  sturgeon  that  was  over  two  yards  long.  You  get  a 
sturgeon  like  that  in  spawning  time  and  just  the  spawn 
is  worth  thirty-five  or  forty  dollars.  Do  you  see  that 
big  strong  hook  hangin'  on  the  wall?  It's  much  as 
three  feet  long,  handle  and  all.  I  use  that  when  I 
ketch  a  fish  that's  too  large  for  my  line.  If  I  once  hook 
him  under  the  chop  with  that  he  has  to  do  some  kickin' 
to  get  away.  He's  got  to  come  whether  he  wants  to  or 
not." 

"Sturgeon  meat  is  so  oily  it  ain't  fit  to  eat,"  the  boy 


On  the  Shores  of  Lake  Champlain  105 

said.  "I  like  hornpouts  'bout  as  well  as  any  fish.  A 
hornpout  is  all  meat  after  you  take  the  backbone  out. 
Some  of  'em  weigh  two  pounds.  I  don't  care  for  eels. 
They  look  too  much  like  snakes.  They'd  have  to  be 
parboiled  and  cooked  pretty  darn  nice  for  me  to  eat, 
and  then  I  shouldn't  want  to  know  what  they  was. 
Did  you  ever  notice  that  you  have  no  luck  ketchin' 
fish  when  it's  thunderin'  around?  Brook  trout  will  be 
bitin'  awful  nice,  and  if  it  starts  to  thunder  they'll  stop 
right  off." 

"You  look  out  of  the  door,"  the  fisherman  said  to 
me,  "and  you  can  see  down  toward  the  water  a  fishin' 
shanty  such  as  is  used  a  good  deal  on  the  lake  in  winter. 
It's  nearly  as  large  as  this  house  of  mine.  We  can  put 
it  on  a  sled  and  go  anywhere  we  want  to  with  it.  If  the 
fish  don't  bite  in  one  place  we  go  to  another.  Most 
generally  there  are  three  holes  in  the  bottom  of  a  shanty, 
and  right  under  each  hole  we  chop  through  the  ice  so 
three  fellers  can  fish. 

"I  didn't  build  this  house,  and  I  haven't  always  had 
it  here  since  I  owned  it.  Golly,  no!  It's  been  moved 
over  a  hundred  times,  I  guess.  Old  Man  Akey  had  it 
for  his  fishing  camp  just  before  I  bought  it,  and  there 
was  one  while  that  eight  people  lived  in  it.  The  old 
man's  son,  Billy,  had  put  up  a  tent  near  his  father's 
camp  and  was  stayin'  in  it  with  his  wife  and  kid.  One 
night  there  was  a  storm  with  thunder  and  lightning  and 
the  rain  poured  down  in  sheets.  The  wind  got  to  be 
such  a  gale  that  it  was  too  much  for  the  tent,  and  it 


io6        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

blowed  the  whole  business  off  into  the  lake  about 
twelve  o'clock  at  night.  'Fore  Billy  and  his  family 
could  crawl  into  this  shanty  they  was  wet  through.  The 
whole  party  slept  in  it  for  the  next  two  weeks.  Old 
Man  Akey  and  his  wife  and  baby  had  the  bunk  you're 
settin'  on.  Billy  and  his  wife  and  baby  were  up  above 
in  another  bunk,  and  two  big  strapping  boys  slept  on 
the  floor  with  their  feet  sticking  outside  through  the 
door.  The  shanty  was  just  as  full  as  an  egg,  as  the 
feller  says." 

While  I  was  on  Grand  Isle  I  explored  to  some  extent 
both  its  mild  eastern  shore  and  the  bold  bluffs  with 
which  it  fronts  the  broad  expanse  of  the  lake  to  the 
west.  The  latter  water-front  was  particularly  delight- 
ful. Here  was  a  succession  of  outreaching  points 
against  whose  craggy  cliffs  the  crested  waves  crash 
when  the  wind  is  high,  and  when  the  day  is  quiet  the 
ripples  dance  and  sing  at  the  base  of  the  rocks.  The 
crags  are  crowned  with  dark-foliaged  cedars,  and 
between  the  points  are  rounded  coves,  pleasantly 
secluded,  with  shelving  beaches  of  pebbles  or  sand.  My 
visit  to  this  part  of  the  island  was  made  on  a  doubtful 
day  when  one  misty  shower  followed  close  on  the  heels 
of  another  with  occasional  intervals  when  the  sunshine 
shimmered  faintly  through  the  clouds.  I  had  a  wide 
view  over  the  gray  waters  of  the  lake,  alternately 
darkling  and  brightening  in  the  shifting  light,  and  there 
were  islands — dusky  near  ones  and  hazy  distant  ones, — 
and  on  the  far  shore  were  the  beautiful  Adirondacks, 


On  the  Shores  of  Lake  Champlain  107 

now  obscured  by  a  thin  veil  of  rain,  and  then  revealing 
themselves  height  piled  on  height,  growing  more  dreamy 
and  evanescent  in  the  distance  till  they  melted  into  the 
sky. 

NOTES. — Not  far  from  where  I  sojourned  is  Burlington,  Vermont's 
largest  city,  on  steep  rising  ground  fronting  the  lake.  Here  Ethan 
Allen,  the  hero  of  Ticonderoga,  is  buried  in  Greenmount  Cemetery. 
The  site  of  the  house  where  he  spent  his  last  years  is  now  Ethan 
Allen  Park.  Rock  Dunder  out  in  the  lake  was  mistaken  by  the 
British  for  a  United  States  vessel  in  1812  and  was  peppered  with 
shot. 

The  Battle  of  Lake  Champlain  between  the  British  and  Yankee 
fleets  was  fought  one  September  morning  in  1814  west  of  Grand  Isle 
near  Plattsburg,  New  York.  Both  fleets  were  almost  battered  to 
pieces,  and,  though  the  British  were  defeated,  their  vessels  got  away 
because  the  victors  had  not  a  mast  left  fit  to  carry  a  sail  and  were 
unable  to  follow. 

The  lake  is  a  favorite  summer  resort,  and  is  noted  for  its  superb 
views  and  rare  historic  associations.  The  first  white  man  to  see  it 
was  the  explorer  whose  name  it  bears.  He  visited  it  in  a  canoe  in 
1609. 

The  most  delightful  way  to  see  the  lake  is  to  voyage  on  one  of  the 
steamers  which  calls  at  the  important  ports  and  enables  the  traveller 
to  observe  the  various  points  of  scenic  beauty.  The  highways  of 
the  region  include  some  gravel  and  some  macadam,  but  you  cannot 
depend  on  anything  better  than  fair  country  roads. 


VI 


THE    VILLAGE    OF    THE    SEVEN    TAVERNS 

IT  is  a  retired  little  hamlet  among  the  Vermont  hills, 
and  the  seven  taverns,  though  the  buildings  still 
stand,  are  taverns  no  longer.  The  days  when  they 
furnished  shelter  and  conviviality  to  the  public  date 
back  to  the  time  when  stage-coaches  were  the  chief 
means  of  conveyance  for  travellers.  Then  the  village 
was  on  a  main  turnpike — a  private  road  with  toll- 
houses at  frequent  intervals — and  the  region  was 
thickly  settled  for  a  farming  community.  Now  only  a 
handful  of  the  people  remain,  and  the  traffic  which 
formerly  enlivened  the  highway  passes  on  the  rail- 
road through  the  depths  of  a  wooded  valley  a  mile 
away. 

One  of  the  old  taverns  was  my  stopping-place.  It 
was  a  substantial  building  that  had  not  been  much 
changed  since  it  was  erected.  The  ceilings  were  low, 
and  the  doors  were  quaintly  panelled  and  had  antique 
hinges  and  latches.  There  was  a  big  vacant  dining- 
room,  and  a  bar-room  with  a  counter  and  shelves  for 
liquors,  and  in  the  upper  story  was  a  spacious  spring- 
floor  ballroom.  The  structure  was  not  in  the  best  of 
repair,  and  the  floor  boards  were  apt  to  teeter  beneath 
one's  tread.  In  heavy  rains  pans  had  to  be  set  here  and 


Washing-day 


The  Village  of  the  Seven  Taverns  109 

there  in  the  kitchen  to  catch  streams  that  found  pas- 
sage through  the  rear  roof. 

At  the  time  of  my  visit  in  early  autumn  the  country 
around  was  particularly  charming.  Touches  of  color 
showed  in  the  foliage,  the  clusters  on  the  wild  grape- 
vines had  begun  to  turn  purple,  and  the  waysides  were 
aglow  with  goldenrod.  Up  and  down  the  steep  hills 
crept  the  roads  with  many  a  graceful  curve;  and 
staggering  board  fences,  patched  and  weather-stained 
and  lichened,  separated  the  highways  from  the  scrubby 
pastures  and  irregular  tracts  of  mowing-land.  Now  and 
then  in  my  walks  I  came  on  a  deserted  home  with 
broken  windows,  loosening  clapboards,  and  a  grassy 
dooryard  long  a  stranger  to  the  daily  tread  of  human 
feet.  Many  of  the  old  houses  had  disappeared  alto- 
gether, and  nought  marked  their  sites  but  bushy  cellar 
holes.  Often  when  the  house  was  gone,  or  a  complete 
ruin,  the  barn  was  still  in  use.  It  perhaps  had  lost  its 
doors  and  sagged  sideways,  but  it  was  repaired  enough 
to  afford  shelter  for  some  of  the  thin  weedy  hay  from 
the  wornout  fields. 

My  first  day  in  the  region  was  Sunday,  and  after 
breakfast  I  sat  down  on  the  piazza,  that  ran  the  whole 
length  of  the  tavern  front.  A  typical  Sabbath  quiet 
pervaded  the  village.  To  be  sure  the  roosters  in  the 
various  backyards  were  stridently  challenging  each 
other,  and  I  could  hear  the  cawing  of  crows  and  the 
faint  far-off  tinkle  of  cow-bells  on  the  big  hills  that 
mounded  around;  but  human  activity  had  well  nigh 


no        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

ceased.  The  hamlet's  only  two  places  of  business,  a 
brick  store  and  a  blacksmith's  shop,  were  shut,  and  I 
observed  no  one  working  except  a  man  washing  a 
buggy  in  the  doorway  of  the  tavern  barn.  The  villagers 
have  a  companionable  way  of  shouting  a  greeting  to 
such  passers  on  the  road  as  are  known  to  them  and  when 
a  man  in  overalls  came  plodding  along  the  highway  the 
buggy-washer  called  out  to  him,  "Hello,  Tom,  did  my 
cow  trouble  you  with  her  noise  last  night?" 

Tom  turned  aside  from  the  roadway,  took  his  pipe 
from  his  mouth  and  remarked:  "I  never  wake  up  till 
the  alarm  goes  off  in  the  morning,  no  matter  what 
noises  there  are  around.  Say,  I  gorry,  you  could  hitch 
that  cow  to  my  bed  five  minutes  after  I've  crawled  in, 
and  she  could  beller  as  much  as  she  pleased,  and  'twould 
never  wake  me.  I  tell  you,  Holt,  you  take  a  good  honest 
man  that  works  hard  all  day  and  eats  three  square 
meals,  he  can  sleep  like  a  hog  all  night." 

"You  don't  mean  'sleep  like  a  hog,'"  Holt  said. 
"You  mean  'sleep  like  a  man.'' 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  Tom  responded,  "I  expect  I'm 
half  hog;  feel  them  brustles." 

He  took  off  his  hat  and  lowered  his  close-cropped 
head  for  inspection;  and  Holt  after  running  his  fingers 
over  the  other's  hair  agreed  as  to  its  stiffness. 

Pretty  soon  Tom  moved  on,  and  I  made  some  inquiry 
of  Holt  about  a  big,  square,  vacant  house  across  the 
road.  "I'll  go  in  and  ask  Ma,"  was  his  response. 

He  left  his  work  and  I  followed  him  into  the  house. 


The  Village  of  the  Seven  Taverns  1 1 1 

"Ma"  was  Mrs.  Stowell,  my  landlady.  She  was  not 
Holt's  mother,  but  an  elderly  relation,  and  he  always 
referred  to  her  any  questions  concerning  the  past. 
"That  house  has  been  empty  for  several  years  now," 
she  said.  "The  last  person  who  lived  in  it  was  an  old 
lady  who  stayed  there  all  alone.  I  used  to  enjoy  calling 
on  her,  she  kept  everything  so  neat,  and  no  matter  how 
early  you'd  go  over  in  the  morning  her  hair  was  fixed 
in  waves  as  nice  as  could  be.  It  was  very  pleasant  to 
look  across  and  see  that  front  room  lit  up  in  the  evening. 
She  was  always  busy,  and  you'd  think  from  the  way 
she  worked  that  she  had  a  large  family.  Why,  she'd 
get  up  at  daylight  Monday,  and  yet  have  so  much  to  do 
around  the  house  that  she  wouldn't  get  her  washing  out 
till  four  in  the  afternoon." 

My  landlady  had  in  her  hand  a  stick  with  a  leather 
flap  on  the  end,  and  as  she  talked  she  moved  about 
spying  out  the  flies  and  smiting  them  with  the  flap.  "I 
have  screens  everywhere,"  she  said,  "but  the  flies 
manage  to  get  in  some  way  or  other." 

"What  did  people  do  before  they  had  screens?" 
I  asked. 

"I  often  think  of  that,"  she  replied.  "There  was  no 
such  thing  when  I  was  young;  but  we  had  thick,  green 
paper  curtains,  and  we'd  roll  them  down  to  darken  the 
house,  and  then  we'd  break  some  small  limbs  off  the 
maple  trees  in  the  yard  and  brush  the  flies  out." 

On  a  bare  hill  a  short  distance  up  the  road  stood  a 
great  white  barn  of  a  church,  but  service  was  only  held 


112        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

once  a  month  and  attracted  few  attendants.  It  is  a 
spireless  structure  built  in  1787  and  is  even  now  prac- 
tically what  it  was  in  the  beginning.  Inside  you  find 
the  old  square  pews  with  seats  on  three  sides,  and  the 
high  pulpit  overhung  by  a  sounding-board  and  having 
the  deacon's  seat  against  the  front  below  like  a  little 
cage. 

The  older  people  can  remember  when  every  Sunday 
the  meeting-house  was  full,  and  how  the  worshippers 
"would  sing  for  all  they  was  worth."  A  local  resident 
named  Devens  whom  I  found  on  Sunday  afternoon 
loitering  in  the  cemetery  which  adjoined  the  churchyard 
with  a  companion  he  called  Todd,  explained  the  present 
situation  by  saying,  "I'd  rather  take  my  rod  and  box 
of  worms  and  go  sit  down  side  of  the  river  than  hear 
the  best  minister  that  ever  was.  About  the  only  persons 
that  go  to  hear  the  preachers  nowadays  are  a  few  of  the 
women  and  children  with  nothing  else  to  do;  and  nine- 
tenths  of  the  women  are  there  just  to  show  their  new 
clothes.  Let  a  woman  get  a  new  hat  or  coat,  and  she's 
at  church  the  next  Sunday,  sure. 

"A  good  many  men  used  to  go  hunting  on  Sunday; 
but  there's  a  law  which  says  you  mustn't,  and  lately 
they've  begun  to  enforce  it.  So  you're  liable  to  be 
gobbled  if  you  carry  your  gun  that  day.  It's  a  law 
made  for  rich  people.  They've  got  leisure  to  hunt  when 
they  please,  but  Sunday  is  the  only  chance  for  poor 
men.  Perhaps,  though,  those  that  work  all  the  week 
ought  to  rest  on  Sunday,  and  now  they've  got  to.  When 


A  colonial  pi 


The  Village  of  the  Seven  Taverns  113 

I  was  a  boy  we  never  thought  of  such  a  thing  as  Sunday 
hunting  or  fishing.  No,  sir!  no,  sir!  We  all  went  to 
meeting  and  Sunday-school  and  read  the  Bible — and  it 
was  a  long  day.  The  kids  now  spend  it  quite  different. 
If  they  read  anything  it's  these  Wild  West  novels,  and 
on  Monday  they  go  and  shoot  somebody. 

"The  meeting-house  was  built  by  the  town,  and  four 
gallons  of  rum  were  voted  to  be  served  at  the  raising. 
That  was  a  time  when  every  one  drank,  and  you 
couldn't  have  any  sociability  without  rum.  But  they 
had  distilled  liquor  then,  and  if  a  man  got  drunk  on  it 
his  head  wa'n't  bigger'n  a  bushel  basket  next  morning. 
It's  all  made  of  drugs  now." 

"Considerable  cider  brandy  was  distilled  at  one 
time  right  here  in  our  village,"  Todd  said.  "This  used 
to  be  a  lively  place  then  with  all  its  taverns  and  other 
business;  but  when  the  railroad  was  built  about  1850 
that  give  us  a  setback." 

"Yes,"  Devens  commented,  "the  railroad  did  away 
with  the  four-horse  coaches  that  passed  through  here. 
I  can  remember  'em.  They  was  loaded  right  down  with 
passengers  and  there  was  trunks  piled  way  up  behind — 
all  they  could  get  on.  In  those  days,  too,  every  farmer 
would  go  down  to  Boston  once  or  twice  a  year  with  a 
load  of  produce  drawn  by  a  yoke  of  oxen  or  perhaps 
two  yoke.  They'd  have  some  dead  pork  and  a  little  of 
one  thing  and  another  to  make  up  the  load  and  usually 
went  late  in  the  fall  after  it  was  cold  enough  to  freeze  up 
the  meat.  A  whole  string  of  fellows  would  travel  to- 


114        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

gether,  and  when  they  stopped  at  the  taverns  they'd 
treat." 

"You  recollect  Old  Bailey,  don't  you?"  Todd  said. 
"He  drew  for  the  stores  and  was  going  back  and  forth 
all  the  time.  It  took  him  a  fortnight  to  make  a  trip. 
He  had  a  six-horse  team  and  put  on  a  ton  to  a  horse 
in  his  canvas-topped  wagon." 

"Why,  good  Lord!"  Devens  exclaimed,  "Uncle 
Luke  White  drove  hogs  to  Boston  for  years.  But  it 
didn't  take  much  gumption  to  drive  hogs  then;  for 
they  grazed  in  the  pastures  and  was  used  to  bein'  out- 
doors. Once  in  a  while  a  man  would  drive  turkeys  to 
Boston.  He  had  to  stop  when  it  was  dark  whether  he 
wanted  to  or  not  because  the  turkeys  would  go  up  in  the 
trees  to  roost." 

"Speakin'  of  the  times  when  the  railroad  was  built 
reminds  me  of  the  Lawrence  boys,"  Todd  said.  "They 
was  livin'  up  at  Hardscrabble,  and  the  railroad  went 
across  their  property.  The  damages  they  got  was  too 
small  to  suit  'em,  and  the  old  woman  went  and  greased 
the  rails.  That  bothered  the  trains  some,  but  it  didn't 
stop  their  running  and  then  the  boys  started  to  raise 
hog  by  piling  ties  on  the  track.  So  the  railroad  sent 
officers  to  arrest  'em.  The  boys  got  warning  somehow 
and  come  down  here,  forty  miles.  That  was  a  long  way 
in  those  days;  but  they  were  caught  and  fined  just  the 
same." 

Not  far  from  where  we  sat  were  several  white  stones 
decorated  with  a  hand  pointing  upward.  I  asked  some 


The  Village  of  the  Seven  Taverns  115 

question  about  them  and  was  told  that  they  were 
erected  by  a  man  named  Leverett  Lowell  in  memory  of 
his  wives.  One  after  another  he  lost  four  and  bought 
a  stone  for  each  of  exactly  the  same  pattern.  "His 
own  stone  stands  at  the  end  of  the  row,"  Todd  remarked, 
"and  there's  a  motto  on  it — 'at  rest' — kind  o'  appro- 
priate, ain't  it?" 

"You  know  he  married  a  fifth  time,"  Devens  said, 
—"took  old  Mother  Houghton.  She  was  a  holy  terror. 
Her  former  husband  was  a  big  burly  saloon  keeper,  but 
in  spite  of  his  size,  when  he  got  drunk  she'd  throw  him 
into  a  closet  and  keep  him  there  until  he  was  sober. 
She  and  Lowell  didn't  agree  very  well  and  they  got  a 
divorce;  and  then  he  wanted  to  marry  again — the  old 
crank — though  he  was  well  along  in  years  and  so  fat 
and  helpless  that  when  he  drove  anywhere  they  had  to 
run  with  a  chair  for  him  to  step  on  getting  in  and  out  of 
the  wagon.  Yes,  and  the  person  he  picked  out  was  a 
little  young  girl  only  sixteen  or  seventeen  years  old. 
But  his  own  children  wouldn't  let  him  make  that 
match." 

"There's  a  tomb  up  to  Cuttingville  you  ought  to 
see,"  Wilson  said  to  me.  "  It  cost  seventy-five  thousand 
dollars  and  is  the  burial  place  of  a  family  of  four — a  man 
and  wife  and  their  two  children.  The  wife  and  children 
each  has  a  life  size  bust  in  the  tomb,  and  there  are 
mirrors  so  set  that  the  busts  are  repeated  and  look  as 
if  they  extended  in  long  rows  way  off  into  the  distance 
till  they  get  so  small  you  can't  see  'em.  The  man  him- 


n6        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

self  is  carved  in  a  full  figure,  which  is  dovetailed  into  a 
step  outside.  He's  got  his  hat  in  his  hand  and  seems 
to  be  just  going  in;  and  the  work  is  done  so  natural 
you  can  even  see  the  stitches  in  his  buttonholes." 

"But  let  me  tell  you,"  Devens  said,  "do  you  'spose 
that  man's  gone  to  heaven?  He  had  a  poor  sister  that 
was  on  the  town  there;  and  he  wouldn't  help  her 
because  he  claimed  she'd  had  just  as  good  a  chance  to 
make  money  as  he  had." 

"He  was  a  mean  cuss,"  Todd  commented.  "I'd  like 
to  know  what  his  heart  was  like." 

"Lots  of  people  in  this  world  ain't  got  no  heart,"  the 
other  declared — "nothing  but  a  gizzard  and  a  mighty 
small  one  at  that." 

"There's  a  number  of  interesting  stones  in  this  old 
cemetery  of  ours  that  I'd  like  to  show  you,"  Todd  said, 
turning  to  me. 

He  rose  and  led  the  way  down  the  hill  a  little  where 
he  called  my  attention  to  the  following  inscription: 

In  MEMORY  of  Mifs. 
EUNICE  PAIN  who  Died 

June  loth  1805  in  the  i6th 

year  of  her  age 
Behold  &  read  a  mournfull  fate 

Two  lovers  were  fincere 

And  one  is  left  without  a  mate, 

The  other  flumbers  here. 


The  Village  of  the  Seven  Taverns  117 

I  asked  for  the  details  of  this  pathetic  romance,  but 
my  guide  said,  neither  he  nor  any  of  the  villagers  knew 
more  than  was  on  the  stone. 

Another  unusual  inscription  was — 

In  Memory  of  Mr.  Jofiah  White 

th 

who  Died  Sep1  ift  1806  in  the  96 

year  of  his  age 

The  descendants  of  Jofiah  White  at  his  death 

Children  15,  Grand  Children  160,  Grate  grand 

Children  211.     Children  Deceas'd  2,  Grand  Children 

Deceas'd  26,  grate  grand  children  Deceas'd  35 

"Some  of  the  stones  have  the  cost  marked  at  the 
bottom,"  my  companion  said.  "Here's  one  dated  1808, 
and  this  line  of  print  way  down  level  with  the  ground 
reads:  *  Price  29  Dollars  &  96  Cents.'  Notice,  too,  the 
coffin  chiseled  up  above  with  the  initials  of  the  man  who 
is  buried  here  cut  on  the  lid. 

"Just  beyond  is  the  grave  of  an  ancestor  of  mine  who 
was  the  first  male  child  born  in  the  settlement.  That 
distinction  entitled  him  to  a  grant  of  land,  and  he  was 
given  a  piece  of  swamp  down  by  the  river,  full  of  logs 
and  trash  left  by  the  floods.  'Twa'n't  good  for  any- 
thing. He  couldn't  sell  it,  and  when  he  came  of  age  he 
swapped  it  for  a  gun. 

"The  stone  with  the  most  curious  inscription  that 
ever  was  in  the  burying-ground  has  been  stolen.  I 


n8        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

remember  exactly  how  it  looked.  It  was  an  old  slate 
stone  of  medium  size,  and  I  could  name  a  dozen  other 
persons  who  knew  it  as  well  as  I  did.  The  verse  was — 

'Here  lays  our  darling  baby  boy, 
He  neither  screams  nor  hollers; 
He  lived  with  us  just  twenty  days 
And  cost  us  forty  dollars.' 

"You  had  to  push  down  the  grass  to  read  the  last 
lines.  One  time  they  had  a  bee  here  to  straighten  up 
the  stones.  I  was  away,  but  when  I  got  back  they  told 
me  that  stone  I  been  speakin'  of  didn't  seem  to  be  there. 
I  offered  to  bet  I  could  go  right  to  the  spot,  for  I  had 
been  to  read  that  verse  a  hundred  times — I  thought  it 
was  funny.  The  stone  was  gone,  though,  sure  enough, 
and  I  couldn't  find  it,  though  I  looked  with  all  the  eyes 
I've  got." 

Later  in  the  afternoon  I  called  at  the  home  of  an  old 
resident  of  the  region  named  Slade.  He  was  in  the 
kitchen  eating  his  dinner  at  a  coverless  table  that 
was  pushed  back  against  the  wall.  His  wife  was  an 
invalid  and  lay  on  a  disheveled  bed  in  an  alcove  beyond 
the  stove.  Mr.  Slade  had  his  coat  off,  and  his  shirt 
sleeves  were  rolled  up  to  the  elbow.  "My  wife  was  one 
of  them  regular  go-ahead  women  before  she  was  took 
sick,"  he  said,  chewing  away  meditatively.  "That 
was  seventeen  years  ago,  and  I've  had  to  get  my  own 
grub  ever  since." 

The  aspect  of  the  room  was  quite  suggestive  of  a 


The  Village  of  the  Seven  Taverns  119 

man's  housekeeping.  The  stove  was  brown  with  rust,  the 
walls  and  ceiling  were  dingy,  and  there  was  an  amazing 
amount  of  litter.  He  evidently  put  things  down  and 
piled  them  up  wherever  it  came  handy.  When  he 
finished  eating,  he  went  and  sat  down  in  a  rocking- 
chair;  but  his  wife  routed  him  out  of  it.  "Get  up, 
Edward,"  she  ordered,  "and  let  the  man  have  that 
chair.  I  want  him  to  sit  there  where  I  can  see  him,  and 
if  he  looks  like  a  good  honest  man  I'll  talk  to  him." 

I  changed  places  with  Mr.  Slade,  and  she  said,  "I 
suppose  when  you  go  away  you'll  be  tellin'  a  long 
rigmarole  about  what  sort  of  people  you  met  here;  and, 
my  dear  boy,  I  want  to  advise  you  to  take  all  the  lazy 
trollops  and  the  smart  ones  and  mix  'em  together  so  as 
to  get  kind  of  an  average  that'll  be  fair  to  us." 

Now  and  then  Mrs.  Slade  groaned  or  sighed,  or  asked 
her  husband  to  bring  her  a  drink  of  water,  or  to  help 
her  to  change  her  position.  Once  she  suddenly  ad- 
dressed him  with  the  query,  "Can  I  believe  a  word  I 
hear?" 

"What  are  you  referating  to?"  he  inquired. 

"I  understand,"  she  said,  "that  since  Lew  Miller 
has  died  the  people  where  he  was  staying  have  brought 
in  a  bill  to  comb  all  that  was  left  of  his  property;  and 
they've  been  havin'  five  dollars  a  week  right  along  for 
takin'  care  of  him,  and  they've  got  him  to  thank  for 
all  the  lace  curtains  and  fine  carpets  that  are  in  the 
house." 

After  this  topic  had  been  discussed  Mr.   Slade  re- 


I2O        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

marked,  "They  say  there's  a  bear  over  at  Chester 
playing  'possum  around.  Some  one  found  several  calf 
pelts  all  cleaned  out  and  rolled  up  just  the  way  bears 
leave  'em,  and  he  saw  the  bear,  too.  'Twa'n't  an  hour 
before  fifty  men  was  on  the  spot,  but  they  didn't  have 
a  chance  to  do  any  shootin'.  Bears  will  get  off  terribly. 
It's  a  wonder  the  way  they  make  themselves  scarce. 
They'll  slip  out  of  sight,  and  even  if  you  foller  their 
tracks  for  days  they'll  get  off." 

"Ed,"  Mrs.  Slade  said,  "perhaps  it  was  a  bear  you 
saw  when  you  was  goin'  down  to  the  station  the  other 
night  with  your  lantern."  She  turned  to  me  and  added, 
"Yes,  he  saw  suthin'  and  it  frightened  him  so  he  hol- 
lered like  a  loon." 

"I  was  squawkin'  at  the  critter — I  wa'n't  frightened," 
Mr.  Slade  asserted. 

"I  guess  you  was,"  she  said.  "I  wouldn't  be  a  mite 
surprised  if  you  was  scared  right  into  your  boots." 

"It  was  that  high,"  Mr.  Slade  explained,  holding  his 
hand  about  two  feet  from  the  floor,  "and  light  colored. 
I  stopped  and  it  stood  a  rod  or  such  a  matter  away 
looking  at  me,  and  then,  by  gorry,  I  yapped  at  it  and 
it  ran  off  as  if  the  devil  was  after  it." 

"Edward,"  Mrs.  Slade  said. 

"What's  up  now?"  he  asked. 

"If  you  don't  open  the  door  and  let  in  some  air  I 
shall  faint  away,"  was  the  reply. 

He  opened  the  door.  "Say  Ed,"  the  invalid  observed 
as  he  returned  to  his  seat. 


Capturing  bees 


The  Village  of  the  Seven  Taverns  121 

"What  shall  I  say?"  was  his  response. 

"You  remember  Herbert  Scott's  wife?"  she  re- 
sumed. "I  ain't  so  bad  to  take  care  of  as  she  was, 
ami?" 

"Nowhere  near,"  Mr.  Slade  declared,  reassuringly, 
and  she  said,  "They  never  any  of  Herb's  family  had  an 
ache  or  a  pain  but  that  old  Mother  Slade  must  go  to 
them,  night  or  day;  and  yet  I  don't  s'pose  they  care  a 
cob  about  my  sickness.  Herb's  wife  was  an  awful 
nervous  thing,  and  in  that  long  sick  spell  of  hers,  if  you 
give  her  a  drink  of  water  and  let  fall  two  drops  of  it  on 
her  she'd  have  a  chill  and  send  for  the  doctor.  When 
she  was  well  she'd  spend  a  good  share  of  her  time  sitting 
in  front  of  a  looking-glass  making  up  faces  to  see  how 
bad  she  could  look." 

"Oh,  no,"  Mr.  Slade  objected,  "Mamy  wa'n't  seem' 
how  bad  she  could  look.  She  was  just  makin'  fancy 
faces." 

"She  wanted  to  appear  like  city  folks,"  Mrs.  Slade 
continued.  "But  let  me  tell  you — city  people  don't 
make  such  a  fuss  about  their  expression,  and  eating 
with  a  fork  and  all  the  other  little  polite  tricks.  I've 
been  in  the  city  as  much  as  once  and  a  half,  and  I  know." 

"Here  comes  Hattie  and  Jim,"  Mr.  Slade  said,  glanc- 
ing out  of  the  window.  "They  are  our  daughter  and 
her  husband,"  he  explained  to  me. 

With  them  were  several  of  their  children,  the  oldest 
a  red-headed  fourteen  year  old  boy,  who  at  once  began 
a  friendly  squabble  with  his  grandfather.  "Jimmy  has 


122        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

been  away  for  three  weeks,"  his  mother  said,  "and 
since  he's  got  back,  I'll  be  plagued  if  he  can  come  into 
this  house  without  pickin'  a  row  with  the  old  man." 

"My  daughter  here  is  slim  and  don't  look  very 
strong,"  Mrs.  Slade  said;  "but  she's  tough,  and  she 
does  her  own  work  and  goes  out  five  days  in  the  week 
to  help  at  the  neighbors'  houses." 

"It  don't  take  her  all  day  to  do  a  little  job  like  it  does 
some  people,"  the  boy  remarked. 

"Oh,  fiddlesticks!"  was  Hattie's  comment. 

"We  been  speakin'  of  Herb's  wife,"  Mr.  Slade  said, 
"What  was't  he  used  to  call  her?  Do  you  remember, 
old  woman?" 

"Yes,"  Mrs.  Slade  responded,  "he  called  her  a 
chromo — a  hand-painted  one." 

"If  a  man  was  to  call  me  that  I'd  break  his  face," 
Hattie  declared. 

"If  you  was  able,  you  might — if  you  wasn't  you 
wouldn't,"  Jim  said.  "But  you'd  be  madder'n  an  old 
wet  hen.  I  know  that." 

Two  of  the  little  girls  were  having  a  row  in  a  corner 
which  the  mother  now  interrupted  by  saying,  "Susy, 
come  here." 

"The  little  girl,  however,  was  loth  to  obey,  and  her 
mother  went  on  to  remark,  "You're  too  big  to  be  licked 
when  people  are  around;  but  if  I  have  to  go  after  you, 
you'll  hear  from  it." 

Jimmy  had  begun  eating  a  crab-apple  he  found  on 
the  table.  "Gramp,"  he  said  to  Mr.  Slade,  "this 


The  Village  of  the  Seven  Taverns  123 

apple's  sourer'n  swill.  Every  time  I  set  my  teeth  into 
it  the  sourness  draws  my  left  eye  right  together." 

"Would  you  rather  have  that  kind  on  the  window- 
sill?"  Gramp  asked. 

"You  bet,"  Jimmy  replied,  reaching  for  a  couple. 
"Them  are  from  the  pasture.  I  call  'em  brickbat 
sweets." 

"This  boy,"  Gramp  said,  patting  Jimmy's  red  head 
affectionately,  "has  never  had  an  absent  or  tardy  mark 
from  the  time  he  first  started  going  to  school." 

"I  hope  we  don't  have  the  same  teacher  again  that 
we  had  last  year,"  Jimmy  said.  "She  was  the  ugliest 
old  thing  that  ever  kept  school  in  the  world." 

"She  would  everlastingly  whale  'em,"  the  boy's 
father  declared;  "and  she'd  make  the  ones  she  whipped 
go  out  and  cut  the  sticks  to  do  it  with.  One  kid,  after 
he'd  cut  the  stick,  broke  it  up  and  skinned  for  home." 

"We  used  to  have  forty  scholars  or  more  in  this 
school,"  Mr.  Slade  observed.  "Now  they  transport 
children  from  two  other  deestricts  here  and  have  in  all 
less  than  twenty.  When  there  ain't  as  many  as  seven 
school  children  in  a  deestrict  it's  the  custom  to  ship  'em 
off  to  some  other  so  as  to  get  enough  to  make  a  quorum." 

"I  was  over  at  North  Walpole  yesterday,"  Jim  said, 
"  and  passed  the  old  Willis  House.  That's  been  haunted 
now  more'n  thirty  years,  ain't  it?" 

"Yes,"  Mr.  Slade  replied.  "When  the  first  owner 
died  it  was  rented,  and  tenant  after  tenant  tried  livin' 
in  it  and  left.  They  said  a  ghost  walked  in  one  of  the 


124        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

rooms  at  night  and  they'd  hear  all  kinds  of  noises.  The 
present  tenant,  though,  is  a  phlegmatic  sort  of  a  feller 
who's  been  in  the  house  a  good  while,  but  he's  got  the 
haunted  part  boarded  up." 

"That'd'a'  been  a  good  house  for  the  Spiritualists  to 
have  meetin's  in,"  Jim  commented. 

"They  used  to  have  seances  and  circles  where  I  lived 
before  I  moved  here,"  Mr.  Slade  said.  "My  mother 
got  bent  that  way,  and  Uncle  Bill  was  red  hot.  Not 
long  after  Father's  death  there  was  a  medium  at  our 
house  and  he  gave  each  of  us  a  message.  He  claimed 
Father  was  talking  through  him.  I  came  in  at  the  tail 
end,  and  Ma  thought  my  message  sounded  like  Father 
exactly.  But  I  said,  'No  it  don't  in  any  way,  shape  or 
form.  It's  a  humbug  from  beginning  to  end.' 

"From  what  I  saw  I  concluded  that  the  mediums  all 
played  for  the  dollars  and  that  their  hearers  was  duped. 
Two  of  their  believers  were  our  nearest  neighbors — a 
man  and  wife  who  agreed  that  whichever  died  first 
would  come  back  once  in  a  while  and  tickle  the  other's 
hand.  Well,  the  wife  died,  and  the  man  said  he  often 
felt  his  hand  tickled  and  knew  the  spirit  of  his  wife  was 
with  him. 

"Then  there  was  a  girl  who  would  sit  down  to  the 
organ,  and  some  of  the  famous  dead  musicians  would 
take  possession  of  her  and  play  through  her  fingers.  But 
they  played  tunes  that  run  her  hands  right  out  beyond 
the  keys  which  was  on  the  organ,  and  her  folks  had  to 
get  her  a  piano.  She  worked  that  pretty  clever." 


The  Village  of  the  Seven  Taverns  125 

Just  then  one  of  the  little  girls  ran  in  shouting  that 
Dan  and  Kit  were  in  the  orchard.  "They're  horses 
belonging  to  a  neighbor,"  Mr.  Slade  said,  as  he  rose  to 
go  out.  "Nearly  every  day  they're  turned  loose  to  bait 
along  the  roadside,  but  they  spend  most  of  their  time 
in  the  fields  and  eat  up  our  apples  and  everybody  else's." 

The  next  morning  when  I  looked  out  of  my  window 
a  drizzling  rain  was  falling,  and  a  man  who  was  plodding 
past  with  a  coat  thrown  over  his  shoulders  and  the 
empty  sleeves  flapping  on  either  side,  only  added  to  the 
melancholy  of  the  scene.  All  that  day  the  rain  con- 
tinued to  fall  straight  down  through  the  quiet  air  with 
a  steady  rustle  among  the  leaves  of  the  trees  and  an 
equally  steady  drip  from  the  eaves  of  the  roof.  When 
I  asked  any  one  about  the  prospects  of  the  weather 
changing  for  the  better,  they  would  look  up  toward  a 
certain  glen  in  the  hills  known  as  Bill's  Notch,  which 
got  its  name  from  Bill  Pulsifer,  an  early  settler  in  whose 
pasture  the  notch  was  included.  If  the  fog  still  hung  in 
Bill's  Notch  the  local  residents  were  assured  the  storm 
would  continue. 

At  the  dinner  table  Holt  remarked  that  he'd  been 
thinking  of  "Grampa"  Stowell,  the  man  who  built  the 
tavern.  "I  come  into  the  room  one  time  where  he  was 
sitting  reading  a  letter,"  Holt  went  on,  "and  asked  him 
for  money  to  buy  a  guitar.  He  was  getting  old  and 
cranky,  and  I  can  remember  just  how  he  whirled  around 
in  his  chair  and  said,  'Don't  be  a-flutin'  or  a-fiddlin', 
but  'tend  to  your  books!' 


126        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

"Grampa  was  a  pretty  clever  old  gentleman.  Once 
in  the  midst  of  a  thunderstorm  when  he  was  on  his 
way  to  Millville  he  met  a  man  from  there  who  was 
considered  the  biggest  rascal  anywhere  about.  Grampa 
was  on  horseback — they  didn't  go  in  wagons  much 
then — and  the  man  was  on  foot  and  had  a  woman  with 
him.  They  told  Grampa,  who  was  a  Justice  of  the 
Peace,  that  they  was  goin'  to  his  house  to  get  him  to 
marry  'em.  'Just  as  well  here  as  anywhere,'  he  says, 
and  he  reined  his  horse  up  under  a  tree  to  get  a  little 
shelter  from  the  storm,  and  raising  his  hand  said — 

'Beneath  this  spreading  chestnut  tree, 
I  declare  you  man  and  wife  to  be; 
And  none  but  Him  who  rules  the  thunder 
Shall  part  this  rogue  and  woman  asunder.": 

"It  is  a  lonely  road  to  Millville,"  the  landlady  said. 
"I've  been  worried  a  good  many  times  when  my  hus- 
band had  to  come  over  it  alone  at  night.  I  remember 
once  in  particular  when  I  knew  he'd  got  a  large  sum  of 
money  and  was  intending  to  walk  from  there,  I  kept 
going  to  the  door  to  listen.  You  recollect,  Holt,  he  had 
a  habit  of  clearing  his  throat  every  little  while;  and 
when  I'd  go  to  the  back  porch  to  call  him  to  breakfast 
I'd  hark  till  I  heard  his  'ham!'  so's  to  get  some  idea  of 
where  he  was.  Well,  that  was  the  first  I  heard  of  him 
the  night  I  was  speakin'  of,  and  then  I  knew  he  was 
almost  home." 

"You've  had  your  share  of  worry,"  Holt  said,  "and 


The  Village  of  the  Seven  Taverns  127 

I  often  think  of  how  you  took  care  of  John  G.  so  many 
years." 

"Who  was  he?"  I  asked. 

"John  G.  Stowell,"  Holt  replied.  "There's  piles  of 
Stowells  in  this  region,  and  we  have  to  use  something 
besides  the  last  name  to  distinguish  one  from  another. 
John  G.  went  to  Dartmouth  College,  and  he  was  the 
brightest  scholar  in  his  class." 

"He  was  too  smart  for  his  brain,"  the  landlady  in- 
terrupted— "that's  just  what  the  matter  was." 

"He  studied  too  hard,"  Holt  continued.  "Well,  he 
was  ready  to  graduate,  and  there  was  a  big  assembly 
gathered  in  the  hall  to  hear  the  first  exercises.  Seven 
other  students  took  part;  but  John  G.  was  the  orator 
of  the  occasion.  At  last  it  come  his  turn,  and  what  did 
he  do  but  turn  and  jump  right  through  a  window,  and 
he  ran  all  the  way  home — probably  thirty  miles.  He 
climbed  in  at  a  window  and  went  to  his  brother  Tim's 
room.  Tim  woke  up,  and  there  was  John  G.  standin' 
by  his  bed  very  wild  lookin'  and  excited.  'They're 
after  me,  Tim,'  he  says,  'and  they're  goin'  to  shoot.' 

"He  was  never  right  after  that  and  had  to  have  a 
guardian  appointed.  He's  often  told  us  that  it  was  a 
mistake,  his  goin'  to  college,  and  he'd  say,  'If  father 
had  given  me  a  darned  good  lickin'  and  set  me  to  work 
I  might  have  amounted  to  something.' ' 

"John  G.  was  queer  in  a  good  many  ways,"  the  land- 
lady said,  "but  shooting  was  the  greatest  thing  with 
him,  and  he  wore  a  big  piece  of  sole  leather  on  his 


128        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

breast  to  protect  him  from  bullets.  He  kept  it  in  place 
by  punching  holes  along  the  edge  and  sewing  it  to  his 
shirt.  For  fear  his  enemies  might  come  to  shoot  him 
while  he  was  asleep  he  always  spent  the  night  on  the 
kitchen  floor  with  the  windows  open  and  the  door  un- 
locked so  he  could  run  and  escape.  A  bundle  he  carried 
about  with  him  served  as  a  pillow.  The  bundle  was 
nothing  but  his  extra  clothing  done  up  in  a  big  handker- 
chief; and  yet  he  was  afraid  somebody  would  be  med- 
dling with  it  and  took  great  pains  to  tie  it  up  hard  and 
fast,  knot  after  knot,  with  a  cord  as  big  round  as  my 
little  finger.  He  had  to  pick  and  pick  when  he  wanted 
to  untie  it. 

"He  was  afraid  if  he  wore  nice  things  he'd  be  killed 
for  what  he  had  on.  So  when  he  bought  a  new  pair  of 
boots  he'd  keep  'em  rolled  up  tight  to  get  'em  all 
wrinkled  before  he'd  put  'em  on;  and  even  then  he'd 
cut  a  slit  or  two  in  them  to  make  sure  nobody  would 
suspicion  they  were  new.  He  always  wore  his  worst 
clothes  on  the  outside  and  looked  like  a  ragbag.  But 
sometimes  when  he  was  here  he'd  take  off  the  shabby 
outside  things  and  shave  and  smooth  down  the  other 
clothes  he  wore,  and  then  he'd  say  to  me,  'Ain't  I  a 
good-formed  man?' 

"'Why  don't  you  dress  that  way  all  the  time?'  I'd 
ask. 

"  'Nobody  wouldn't  kill  me  for  them  old  duds,'  he'd 
say;  ' but  they  would  for  these.' 

"So  he'd  put  on  the  rags  again,  and  he'd  wear  all 


The  Village  of  the  Seven  Taverns  129 

those  extra  things  buttoned  right  up  in  the  hottest 
day  that  ever  was. 

"Often  he  had  a  notion  he  was  being  squeezed  with 
lard  squeezers.  'They're  squeezing  of  me  to  death,' 
he'd  say.  'I  can't  see  'em,  but  they're  doing  it  all  the 
same.  They  just  come  right  up  behind  me  and  put  the 
squeezers  on.'  Sometimes  in  the  morning  he'd  tell  us 
they'd  been  squeezing  him  all  night,  and  then  he'd  girt 
himself  with  a  cord  to  measure  and  see  how  much  he'd 
shrunk. 

"He  wandered  around  a  good  deal,  and  the  first 
year  he  was  here  he  was  gone  one  time  for  ten  weeks. 
It  was  winter,  and  I  never  expected  to  see  him  again. 
I  thought  he  was  in  a  snowbank  somewhere;  but  he'd 
been  way  up  among  the  mountain  farmers.  Every- 
body knew  John  G.  and  he  could  always  get  kept;  but 
no  matter  where  he  went  he'd  sleep  on  the  kitchen  floor 
with  his  clothes  on,  exactly  as  he  did  here,  because  he'd 
got  to  be  ready  to  run.  We  never  had  any  idea  how 
long  or  short  his  stays  would  be  with  us.  He'd  get  up 
early  some  morning  and  go  out  in  the  road  and  throw 
up  his  cane,  and  the  direction  it  pointed  when  it  fell 
was  the  direction  he'd  take.  I  think,  though,  after  he 
started,  he  knew  pretty  well  where  he  was  going  to  head 
up  at  night.  If  I  asked  him  about  his  intentions  he'd 
reply,  'I'm  goin'  to  find  fresh  air;'  and  off  he'd  go, 
cane  in  hand,  and  with  his  bundle  on  a  stick  over  his 
shoulder. 

"Next  to  shooting  he  was  in  dread  of  being  poisoned. 


130        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

He  wouldn't  eat  with  others  and  he  wanted  to  watch 
you  prepare  his  food  to  make  sure  you  didn't  put  poison 
in  it.  One  day  he  come  in  after  having  been  gone  a 
week  or  so,  and  he  brought  his  hat  full  of  crackers  from 
the  store  and  set  it  down  on  the  wood  in  the  woodbox. 
I  happened  to  go  and  get  a  stick  to  put  in  the  stove, 
and  he  jumped  up  and  said,  'You've  been  pizening 
them  crackers — I  know  you  have!' 

"So  he  carried  'em  out  and  throwed  every  one  of  'em 
on  the  ground,  and  went  to  the  store  for  a  new  mess. 

"He  was  very  good  about  doing  small  jobs  for  me; 
but  he  didn't  always  do  'em  at  the  time  I  asked  him. 
'You're  wantin'  somethin'  done  all  the  while,'  he'd  say, 
'and  I  ain't  goin'  to  sweep  up  your  backyard,'  or  what- 
ever it  was  I'd  spoken  of. 

'"All  right,'  I'd  reply,  'it  won't  matter  a  bit.' 

"But  by  and  by  he'd  come  around  and  say,  'Well,  I 
s'pose  you  want  that  done,'  and  he  would  go  ahead  and 
do  it. 

"He  was  quite  a  reader,  and  could  converse  on  any- 
thing. One  stormy  winter  evening,  when  my  children 
were  small,  he  says,  'Mrs.  Stowell,  can't  I  lie  down  in 
the  sitting-room  where  the  rest  of  you  are?' 

"I  said  of  course  he  could,  and  he  lay  there  on  the 
floor  while  the  children  were  studying  their  lessons. 
Sometimes  they'd  ask  him  the  meaning  of  a  word,  and 
after  he'd  told  'em  he'd  say,  'Now  I  want  you  to  parse 
that  word,'  and  if  they  couldn't  he  would." 

"When  the  dances  we  used  to  have  here  broke  up," 


The  Village  of  the  Seven  Taverns  131 

Holt  said,  "those  that  attended  liked  to  get  John  G.  to 
make  a  speech.  They'd  chip  in  a  dollar  or  two  and 
give  him  a  few  glasses  of  liquor  to  oil  him  up  and  he'd 
get  off  some  of  the  greatest  declamations  ever  heard. 
He  had  a  beautiful  voice  to  speak  or  to  sing  either." 

"One  day  when  he'd  been  with  me  about  eight 
years,"  the  landlady  resumed,  "as  soon  as  he  sat  down 
to  eat  breakfast  he  began  to  talk  pizen,  and  I  see  he 
was  terribly  wound  up  that  morning.  He'd  only  taken 
a  few  mouthfuls  when  he  give  a  kind  of  a  groan,  and 
his  right  hand  dropped  by  his  side.  He'd  had  a  shock, 
and  when  I  spoke  to  him  he  really  didn't  act  as  if  he 
knew  much.  We  took  him  and  laid  him  down  on  the 
floor  with  his  bundle  under  his  head  so  he'd  feel  natural; 
but  he  never  come  to  and  he  died  that  afternoon. 

"I'd  always  said  that  if  I  outlived  him  I'd  have 
people  see  him  well-dressed  for  once,  and  I  had  his  best 
clothes  put  on,  and  he  did  look  splendid  in  his  cofRn." 

"  I  tell  you,"  Holt  said,  "  if  the  story  of  this  old  tavern 
could  be  written  with  all  the  good  and  the  bad  things 
that  have  happened  here,  and  all  the  funny  and  the  sad 
things,  it  would  make  one  of  the  most  interesting  books 
ever  published." 

That  was  stretching  the  probabilities,  and  yet  the 
random  revelations  unfolded  to  me  in  my  short  stay 
were  suggestive  of  a  strangely  tangled  web  of  both  weal 
and  woe;  and  there  was  something  of  the  same  appeal 
to  the  sympathies  in  the  glimpses  that  came  to  me  of 
the  past  in  other  village  homes.  Much  of  the  tragic  was 


132        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

traceable  to  drunkenness,  and  I  wondered  if  the  fact 
that  the  hamlet  had  been  so  numerously  supplied  with 
taverns  did  not  have  something  to  do  with  the  melan- 
choly record.  The  present,  too,  was  sullied  by  the  same 
malign  influence;  and  this  I  regretted  the  more  because 
I  found  the  people  so  kindly  and  courteous  and  ready 
to  do  anything  they  could  to  oblige  me. 

NOTES. — The  roads  in  southern  Vermont  are  as  a  rule  dirt  or 
gravel  and  fairly  good.  But  off  the  main  thoroughfares  you  not 
infrequently  find  those  that  are  hilly,  winding,  narrow,  and  poor, 
though  there  is  likely  to  be  sufficient  compensation  in  the  beautiful 
and  unspoiled  wild  scenery. 

One  place  in  this  section  of  the  state  that  all  visitors  should  see 
is  Bennington  in  the  vicinity  of  which  was  fought  one  of  the  notable 
battles  of  the  Revolution.  It  was  the  home  of  Ethan  Allen  of 
Ticonderoga  fame.  Among  its  attractions  are  a  battle  monument 
over  three  hundred  feet  high  and  the  Hessian  Burial  Ground. 


-- 


At  the  door  of  a  country  store 


VII 


AUGUST    IN    THE    BERKSHIRE    HILLS 

BERKSHIRE,  the  westernmost  of  the  counties  of 
Massachusetts,  sweeps  straight  across  the  state 
from  Connecticut  to  Vermont.  It  is  a  district 
of  mountains  and  tumbled  lesser  heights,  and  though 
one  or  two  of  its  valleys  are  broad  enough  to  give  a 
sense  of  repose,  even  there  the  blue  waves  of  the  encir- 
cling hills  are  constantly  in  sight.  From  the  up- 
lands streams  come  coursing  down  the  wooded  glens, 
with  here  and  there  a  foaming  waterfall,  and  they  go 
on  through  the  valleys,  still  swiftly  as  a  rule,  but  some- 
times broadening  into  a  pond  or  lake,  and  occasionally 
set  to  work  to  turn  the  wheels  of  a  mill. 

Portions  of  the  county,  like  Lenox  and  Stockbridge 
are  famous  as  the  summer  playground  of  millionaries 
from  the  great  cities,  and  there  you  find  palatial  man- 
sions in  the  midst  of  great  estates  that  have  all  the 
beauty  in  architecture,  gardens,  and  grounds  which 
wealth  can  confer.  In  other  parts  of  the  county  farms 
predominate,  sometimes  bearing  evidence  of  thrift  and 
prosperity,  sometimes  betokening  shiftless  poverty  or  a 
dubious  struggle  against  hard  conditions.  It  has  been 
said  that  in  the  back  country  hill  towns  the  ordinary 
farmer  is  worth  scarcely  five  hundred  dollars  and  that 


134        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

important  items  in  his  property  are  a  fifteen  dollar 
horse  and  a  cheap  watch  chiefly  valuable  for  swapping 
purposes. 

When  I  started  out  to  make  an  automobile  trip  in 
Berkshire  I  entered  the  county  from  the  east,  and  after 
a  long  climb  up  an  ever-winding  dirt  road  that  followed 
a  stream  through  the  woodland  I  emerged  from  the 
forest.  The  long  road  stretched  upward  as  if  it  led  to 
the  very  sky,  and  by  and  by  I  came  to  a  deserted  house 
and  stopped  to  eat  lunch  under  a  tree  in  the  yard.  The 
house  had  been  snug  and  substantial  in  its  prime,  but 
now  the  shingles  were  slipping  off  the  roof,  the  walls 
were  out  of  plumb,  and  the  underpinning  was  giving 
way.  Faint  traces  of  red  paint  lingered  on  the  weather- 
worn clapboards.  Near  one  corner  some  neglected 
rosebushes  had  become  a  thicket.  The  interior  was  a 
wreck  of  falling  ceilings,  warped  floors,  and  rubbish. 
Even  the  great  stone  fireplaces  were  cracking  and  going 
to  pieces.  Back  of  the  house  the  barn  had  slumped 
down,  and  there  it  lay  a  heap  of  decaying  debris.  The 
fields  around  that  once  bore  bountiful  crops  now  pro- 
duced only  thin  yields  of  wild  grass,  and  the  stone 
walls  that  in  earlier  days  were  so  sturdy  had  become 
ruinous,  and  brush  flourished  along  their  borders. 

I  was  in  the  town  of  Peru,  and  somewhat  farther  on, 
at  a  crossroads,  was  a  church,  a  store,  a  schoolhouse, 
and  the  town  hall,  all  in  a  row,  all  wooden,  and  all 
painted  white.  No  more  than  five  or  six  dwellings  were 
in  the  immediate  vicinity.  The  spot  is  twenty-one 


August  in  the  Berkshire  Hills  135 

hundred  feet  above  the  sea,  and  is  the  highest  inhabited 
land  in  Massachusetts.  So  exactly  is  the  church 
perched  on  the  summit  of  the  watershed  that  the  rain 
falling  on  the  west  roof  goes  into  the  Housatonic  and 
what  falls  on  the  east  roof  goes  into  the  Connecticut. 
Each  of  the  four  roads  plunges  boldly  down  into  a  vale 
only  to  mount  ridges  beyond  and  it  continues  its 
undulating  course  mile  after  mile. 

A  century  ago  the  town  had  a  thousand  inhabitants, 
but  they  have  steadily  decreased  ever  since  until  now 
there  are  scarcely  two  hundred.  The  bleakness  of  the 
situation,  especially  in  winter,  the  stony  soil,  the 
difficult  roads,  and  the  feeling  that  life  in  such  surround- 
ings is  dull  and  that  the  returns  for  labor  must  be  small 
at  best  has  made  the  people  drift  away  to  regions  they 
fancy  are  more  favored. 

I  visited  a  neglected  cemetery  off  on  a  hillside  that 
overlooked  the  group  of  buildings  at  the  corners.  It 
was  bounded  by  stone  walls,  a  few  unthrifty  trees  grew 
in  it,  and  the  straggling  gravestones  were  nearly  hidden 
in  weeds  and  brush.  In  places  the  ground  was  gay  with 
patches  of  scarlet  bunch-berries.  Blueberry  bushes 
flourished  too  and  were  loaded  with  delicious  fruit.  I 
mentioned  my  enjoyment  of  the  blueberries  to  the 
storekeeper  when  I  returned  to  the  village.  "  So  you've 
been  robbing  the  graves,"  was  his  comment. 

The  store  was  architecturally  plainer  and  less  preten- 
tious than  many  barns,  and  its  austerity  was  unre- 
lieved by  a  single  near  tree.  There  it  stood  beside  the 


136        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

road  exposed  to  the  summer  sun  and  the  onslaughts 
of  the  winter  storms,  yet  whatever  its  shortcomings  in 
structure  and  environment  it  was  the  business  and 
social  center  of  all  the  mountain  region  around.  Out  in 
front  of  it  the  ground  was  much  cluttered  with  an  ac- 
cumulation of  timber,  wagons,  sleds,  farm  machines, 
rolls  of  wire,  boxes,  barrels,  and  other  miscellany. 
Inside  it  was  crowded  to  the  doors  with  goods  of  mar- 
vellous variety.  The  merchandise  had  encroached  on 
the  aisles  till  one  could  hardly  move  about,  and  it  was 
stacked  against  the  post  office  boxes  so  that  they  were 
almost  hidden  from  sight. 

I  looked  on  while  the  proprietor  made  a  sale  of  foot- 
wear to  a  young  fellow  whose  horses,  hitched  to  a 
wagon  loaded  with  grain,  were  waiting  for  him  out  in 
front.  "There's  a  ripping  good  shoe,  Henry,"  the 
merchant  said  convincingly.  He  turned  it  this  way 
and  that,  felt  of  its  leather  with  evident  admiration, 
and  handed  it  to  his  customer  who  was  soon  persuaded 
to  buy. 

A  short  time  before  burglars  had  broken  in  the  back 
entrance  and  blown  off  the  door  of  the  safe  with  nitro 
glycerine.  The  storekeeper  only  became  aware  of  what 
had  happened  when  he  opened  the  store  the  next  morn- 
ing. He  found  that  the  explosion  had  stopped  the  clock 
on  the  wall  near  the  safe  with  the  pointers  at  five 
minutes  past  three,  and  that  the  burglars  had  carried 
off  some  loose  change  and  possibly  two  dollars  worth  of 
stamps. 


August  in  the  Berkshire  Hills  137 

One  of  the  men  loitering  on  the  platform  at  the  en- 
trance to  the  store  was  a  woodland  worker  whose 
employer  owned  a  portable  sawmill.  He  had  me  go 
with  him  out  into  the  road  and  pointed  to  the  mill 
nearly  concealed  among  the  trees  off  on  a  neighboring 
slope.  "We  broke  down  yesterday,"  he  said.  "That's 
why  I'm  doin'  nothin'  today.  We  move  around  from 
woodlot  to  woodlot.  This  feller  that  I'm  workin'  for 
has  been  at  it  with  his  mill  for  the  last  thirty-five  years. 
He  hires  ten  or  twelve  men  and  keeps  a  couple  of  teams. 
We  have  a  shack  to  live  in  that  is  made  in  sections  so 
it  can  be  taken  down  and  put  up  in  a  new  place.  We  do 
our  own  cooking.  Some  of  the  spruce  trees  we're 
cuttin'  now  are  two  foot  through  on  the  stump.  We're 
at  it  all  the  year,  winter  and  summer.  One  season  is 
just  as  good  as  another  except  that  in  hot  weather  the 
wood  is  gummy  and  makes  the  saws  stick." 

The  church  on  the  hilltop  was  of  a  finicky  suburban 
type,  but  on  the  same  spot  there  formerly  stood  a 
simple,  dignified  old  white  meeting-house.  One  Sat- 
urday evening  in  February  the  janitor  went  in  and 
started  the  fires  so  that  the  edifice  would  get  warm  for 
the  services  of  the  next  day.  Shortly  afterward  the 
building  was  in  flames,  and  on  that  high  ridge  the  blaz- 
ing beacon  could  be  seen  for  many  miles  around.  The 
people  of  the  vicinity  turned  out,  and  quite  a  crowd 
gathered,  but  it  was  impossible  to  fight  the  fire  or  to 
save  anything.  A  "terrible"  wind  blew,  and  for  a  time 
the  store  was  in  danger  from  the  flying  brands.  Men 


138        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

climbed  up  on  the  roof  and  threw  pails  of  water  over 
the  shingles,  and  the  night  was  so  bitterly  cold  that 
the  water  froze  as  fast  as  it  fell. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  I  descended  the  hill  westerly 
a  few  miles  and  found  lodging  at  an  old  farm  which 
had  been  transformed  into  a  summer  boarder  resort. 
A  long  two-story  annex  encircled  by  a  broad  piazza. 
adjoined  the  house.  It  was  a  sort  of  barracks  rudely 
partitioned  off  into  sleeping  apartments.  No  lath, 
plaster,  or  paint  were  used,  and  the  walls  and  floor 
were  one  board  thick.  After  I  had  retired  I  found  that 
the  noises  from  the  rooms  on  either  side  all  came 
through,  and  what  with  the  talking  and  singing  and 
walking  about  inside  of  the  building  and  on  the  piazzas, 
the  dancing  and  the  thrumming  of  the  piano,  sleep  was 
out  of  the  question.  Finally  some  man  dropped  his 
shoes  on  the  floor  above.  I  started  up  with  the  impres- 
sion that  there  had  been  an  earthquake.  Surely,  if  any 
one  had  come  to  this  resort  to  get  into  the  quiet  country 
and  cure  a  nervous  breakdown  such  a  racket  would 
have  finished  him.  But  so  far  as  I  am  aware  the  people 
were  satisfied  and  enjoying  themselves,  though  I  could 
not  help  feeling  that  their  loafing  was  rather  uneasy 
and  objectless. 

The  farm  people  and  their  helpers,  on  the  other  hand, 
led  a  life  that  was  genuinely  strenuous.  They  worked 
early  and  late,  and  various  makeshifts  served  for  their 
sleeping  apartments.  Some  had  bunks  in  the  barn, 
some  occupied  tents  in  a  field  across  the  road,  and  the 


August  in  the  Berkshire  Hills  139 

old  farmer  slept  in  a  room  roughly  fixed  up  in  a  shed. 
When  he  came  out  in  the  morning  smoking  his  pipe 
and  sat  down  on  the  piazza.  I  got  to  windward  of  him 
and  asked  what  crops  were  raised  in  the  region. 

He  puffed  meditatively  once  or  twice  and  then  said: 
"Well,  we  raise  potatoes  and  corn  and  buckwheat  and 
considerable  hay  and  oats.  Our  season  ain't  really  long 
enough  for  corn.  This  year  we  had  a  backward  spring, 
cold  and  wet,  and  now  the  corn  is  just  silking  out. 
There'll  be  more  stalks  than  ears.  We've  already  had 
frost  in  low  places,  and  only  now  and  then  an  ear  will 
get  ripe,  but  we'll  husk  it  all  just  the  same  and  feed  the 
soft  corn  to  the  pigs. 

"When  I  was  a  young  man  I  bought  a  hundred  acre 
farm  up  in  Peru  with  a  good  house  and  three  barns  on 
it  for  eight  hundred  dollars.  The  house  alone  couldn't 
have  been  built  for  that  money.  Pretty  well-to-do 
farmers  lived  there  in  them  days.  But  one  after  another 
they  moved  away  or  got  old  and  died.  They  all  had 
good  dairies  and  herds  of  young  cattle,  and  they  made 
butter  and  cheese.  Lots  of  sheep  were  kept,  and  I 
remember  one  man  had  a  thousand.  Now  there  are  not 
any  the  dogs  raise  havoc  so.  It's  fine  country  for 
sheep,  and  I  think  they  may  have  'em  again  up  there, 
but  the  pastures  are  run  out,  and  new  fences  would 
have  to  be  made.  A  cattle  fence  won't  keep  'em  in. 
You've  got  to  have  more  wires,  and  barbed  wire  won't 
do  because  it  pulls  out  too  much  wool.  We  used  to 
have  brush  fence  and  fence  made  of  spruce  poles,  and 


140        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

there  were  fences  of  rails  split  out  of  swamp  ash.  But 
the  old  wooden  fences  have  about  all  rotted  down. 

"I  brought  up  most  of  my  fifteen  children  in  Peru, 
and  some  of  'em  died  there,  but  I  wouldn't  have  'em 
buried  in  the  Peru  cemetery.  That's  a  bad  spot.  It's 
so  wet  that  I've  seen  graves,  after  they  were  dug,  half 
full  of  water.  The  people  would  put  in  spruce  brush  so 
the  coffin,  when  it  was  lowered,  wouldn't  go  right  into 
the  water.  That  was  too  shocking  for  me,  and  I  buried 
my  children  down  here. 

"Finally  I  moved  onto  this  place,  and  I  kept  thirty 
cows,  but  as  time  went  on  it  got  so  I  couldn't  get  help 
to  milk  so  many  or  raise  enough  to  feed  'em.  The  only 
men  that  came  along  askin'  for  work  were  tramps  and 
drunkards.  They  were  all  in  rags,  and  the  first  thing 
I'd  have  to  do  was  to  furnish  'em  with  shoes  and  shirts. 
They'd  stay  a  couple  of  weeks  until  about  five  dollars 
was  due  'em,  and  then  they'd  want  the  money,  and  off 
they'd  go.  It  was  enough  to  try  the  patience  of  Job, 
and  I  give  up.  That's  why  you'll  find  the  barns  and 
other  buildings  here,  which  ought  to  be  full  of  cows  and 
stock,  nearly  empty. 

"When  I  bought  the  place  I  could  hire  help  for 
reasonable  wages,  but  now  a  man  wants  thirty  dollars  a 
month  and  board,  and  he  can't  begin  to  earn  what  he 
asks.  That's  been  my  experience.  Since  we've  gone 
into  the  summer  boarder  business  we  have  to  hire  a 
good  many  girls,  but  none  of  'em  wants  to  wash  dishes. 
They're  willing  to  wait  on  table,  but  the  rest  of  the  day 


August  in  the  Berkshire  Hills  141 

they  don't  want  to  do  nawthin'.  It  ain't  because 
they're  not  able  to  do  the  work.  They're  good  eaters, 
and  they  sleep  long  enough,  and  they're  stout,  but  if 
you  hire  one  of  'em  she  expects  there'll  be  a  man  around 
to  wait  on  her.  He  must  get  the  wood  and  water  and 
make  the  fires  and  fetch  the  potatoes  and  do  all  the 
rough  work,  you  know,  while  she  looks  on." 

By  the  time  the  chill  of  the  early  morning  had  been 
tempered  by  the  bright  sunshine  I  was  again  on  my 
way.  The  weather  was  ideal,  and  whenever  I  was  out 
in  the  open  country  either  on  the  hills  or  in  the  culti- 
vated valleys  I  had  superb  views  of  the  mountains, 
with  a  splendid  blue  sky  above  on  which  the  stately 
cloudships  sailed.  Most  of  the  big  upheaving  mountain 
ranges  had  tilted  fields  and  pastures  on  their  lower 
slopes,  and  then  the  green  woods  swept  up  over  their 
summits,  but  occasionally  a  great  rounded  height  was 
patchworked  with  cultivated  lands  to  its  very  top,  and 
on  certain  other  heights  the  forest  crept  down  to  the 
valley  depths  and  even  arched  and  shadowed  the  low- 
land roadways. 

The  Berkshire  road  is  a  continual  delight.  Perhaps 
it  was  most  appealing  to  me  when  from  the  verge  of  a 
hill  I  overlooked  a  long  stretch  of  it  with  bordering 
homes,  fields,  and  fences,  orchards,  and  shade  trees — a 
human  thoroughfare  travelled  for  long  years  past  by 
rich  and  poor,  by  workers  and  by  pleasure-seekers,  by 
school  children  and  by  churchgoers,  by  lovers  and  by 
mourners.  Often  it  flowed  gently  on  for  miles  up  and 


142        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

down  the  little  hills  between  the  mountain  ranges,  but 
it  was  ever  winding,  and  changes  and  surprises  in  the 
scene  were  constant.  In  the  wilder  sections  there  were 
yellow  masses  of  goldenrod  and  wild  sunflowers  beside 
the  way  or  along  the  field  divisions  and  the  streams, 
and  sometimes  there  were  jungles  of  joe-pye  weed 
capped  with  mauve-tinted  bloom,  and  occasionally 
high-bush  blackberry  vines  drooped  low  with  a  weight 
of  fruit  close  to  the  wheeltracks. 

One  of  the  pleasant  little  valley  towns  that  I  visited 
was  Lanesboro,  to  which  I  was  attracted  largely  by  the 
fact  that  it  was  the  birthplace  of  "Josh  Billings."  His 
real  name  was  Henry  W.  Shaw,  and  the  old  Shaw  house 
where  he  passed  his  early  years  still  looks  down  from 
its  position  on  a  high  plateau  of  a  western  hill.  The 
humorist  is  buried  in  the  village  cemetery,  where,  in 
accord  with  his  wishes,  an  enormous  rough  block  of 
marble  from  a  local  quarry  marks  his  grave. 

A  townsman  recalled  that  "Squire  Shaw,"  the  father 
of  Josh  Billings,  was  the  richest,  most  prominent  man 
in  the  region.  He  had  marked  ability,  knew  more 
theology  than  the  minister,  and  more  law  than  nine- 
tenths  of  the  lawyers.  The  town  always  elected  him 
to  the  legislature  when  he  wanted  to  go.  In  Boston,  if 
his  support  was  gained  for  a  measure,  that  measure  was 
considered  as  good  as  passed.  He  was  a  forcible  speaker, 
and  he  could  shed  tears  and  work  on  the  feelings  of  his 
audience,  and  yet  be  as  cool  as  a  cucumber  inside.  The 
squire  often  went  to  the  store  where  the  post  office  was 


August  in  the  Berkshire  Hills  143 

and  sat  for  an  hour  or  more  to  talk  politics,  and  the 
villagers  liked  to  listen  to  him.  He  had  his  failings, 
but  his  wife  was  "a  devoted  Christian  woman,"  the 
daughter  of  one  of  the  nabobs  of  the  town  who  owned 
five  or  six  farms. 

Josh  had  an  older  brother,  Bob,  who  inherited 
twenty  thousand  dollars  when  he  came  of  age,  and  that 
spoiled  him.  He  began  to  carouse,  chose  wild  young 
men  for  his  companions,  kept  fast  horses,  and  drove 
from  town  to  town  and  tavern  to  tavern.  One  of  his 
pranks  was  the  stealing  of  the  bell-tongue  from  the 
Lanesboro  meeting-house  steeple.  On  another  occa- 
sion, when  there  was  a  revival  meeting  at  the  church 
he  hitched  up  his  best  horse  and  drove  round  and 
round  the  building  all  of  a  winter  afternoon  until  the 
meeting  came  to  an  end.  He  married  the  sister  of  one 
of  his  cronies,  and  his  father  gave  him  a  farm,  but  Bob 
wouldn't  settle  down,  and  finally  he  drifted  West, 
where  he  died. 

"Hen  Shaw,"  as  the  humorist  was  commonly  known 
in  his  youth,  was  a  reticent  boy,  and  didn't  seem  to 
care  about  having  companions.  Presently  he  was  sent 
off  to  Hamilton  College.  Then  it  was  whispered  around 
that  he  had  run  away  and  joined  a  circus.  But  no  one 
dared  ask  the  old  squire  whether  the  rumor  was  true 
or  not.  In  two  or  three  years  Josh  returned  home. 
Once  a  menagerie  came  to  town,  and  he  went  in  and 
showed  up  the  animals.  He  drew  a  crowd  by  his 
quaintly  humorous  descriptions  and  comments. 


144       Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

As  a  man  he  was  over  six  feet  tall  and  large-framed, 
but  round-shouldered,  spare,  and  bony.  After  he 
began  to  write  he  let  his  hair  grow  long  and  cultivated 
oddity  in  his  appearance.  He  married  a  local  farmer's 
daughter,  whose  folks  objected  to  the  match,  because 
they  thought  he  was  shiftless,  while  his  own  folks  were 
no  less  displeased  because  her  family  was  less  aristo- 
cratic than  theirs.  So  the  courtship  was  mostly  con- 
ducted on  the  village  street. 

Josh  had  not  been  brought  up  to  systematic  habits, 
and  he  was  undoubtedly  physically  lazy  and  disin- 
clined to  exert  himself.  This,  however,  did  not  prevent 
his  winning  fame  as  an  author  and  making  a  fortune  by 
his  writing  and  his  lecture  tours.  He  came  to  Lanes- 
boro  every  summer  and  boarded  at  the  hotel,  where  he 
enjoyed  sitting  around  and  talking  to  congenial  friends 
and  acquaintances,  or  he  might  visit  the  store  and  loiter 
there  chatting  and  cracking  jokes.  Now  and  then  he 
would  go  fishing. 

In  his  day  and  generation  he  added  not  a  little  to  the 
world's  gayety.  He  was  a  keen  judge  of  character,  and 
his  whimsical  wisdom  and  the  genuine  originality  of  his 
vein  of  humor  and  his  fantastic  spelling  will  long  be 
remembered. 

One  of  the  Berkshire  Edens,  it  seems  to  me,  is  New 
Ashford.  Yet  it  is  an  Eden  that  is  apparently  unap- 
preciated and  likely  to  disappear  off  the  map,  for  its 
dwindling  inhabitants  now  number  scarcely  a  hundred, 
and  there  are  vacant  houses  even  in  the  village  center. 


August  in  the  Berkshire  Hills  145 

The  place  is  in  a  tangle  of  steep  hills,  with  rocky 
streams  coursing  down  the  hollow,  and  rough,  irregular 
fields  here  and  there  crowding  back  the  woodland.  In 
one  of  the  valley  nooks  was  a  tiny  white  church,  and 
near  it  a  lowly,  one-room  schoolhouse  that  clung  to  a 
slope  by  the  wayside  with  a  cornfield  and  a  barnyard 
coming  close  up  to  its  walls.  The  hamlet  certainly  was 
not  thriving,  but  in  picturesque  charm  it  was  a  rustic  gem. 

I  stopped  there  over  night  with  a  courtly  old  gentle- 
man who  had  been  selectman  for  thirty-six  years.  The 
rest  of  the  family  consisted  of  a  mild  faded  wife,  and  a 
grim  silent  daughter.  As  we  sat  talking  after  supper 
my  host  said:  "I'd  like  to  sell  out  so  my  wife  and  I 
can  have  a  little  rest.  It's  time  we  stopped,  but  you 
can't  sell  a  farm  here.  You'd  have  to  hire  some  one  to 
buy,  and  we  don't  feel  like  giving  away  our  land  after 
putting  so  many  long  years  of  work  on  it.  So  here  we'll 
probably  stay  until  we  die.  I  keep  ten  cows,  and  my 
wife  makes  thirty  pounds  or  more  of  butter  a  week.  I 
drive  twelve  miles  to  Pittsfield  with  a  load  of  our  farm 
produce  every  Saturday.  All  the  women  there  look  for 
me  on  that  day. 

"Last  week,  when  I  was  down  there  I  had  to  testify 
in  a  law  case.  I  didn't  have  to  go  to  court,  but  to  a 
lawyer's  office,  and  a  phonographer  who  wrote  short- 
hand took  down  all  that  I  said  as  fast  as  I  spoke.  I 
saw  what  he  wrote,  but  I  couldn't  make  out  the  first 
thing.  It  looked  as  if  a  spider  had  stepped  on  the  paper 
and  walked  across. 


146        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

"This  daughter  who  is  living  with  us  is  not  right  in 
her  head.  She  married  a  man  who  drank.  He  was 
smart,  but  he  liked  liquor  too  well,  and  that  spoiled 
everything.  She's  all  the  time  imagining  that  he's 
tormenting  her.  About  the  only  comfort  she  gets  is  in 
painting.  You  see  the  pictures  on  the  jars  and  things 
here  in  the  parlor,  and  those  sheep  in  the  frame  on  the 
wall.  She  painted  'em  all,  and  I  think  she  does  it  pretty 
good. 

"You  must  excuse  my  clothes.  I've  been  fishing 
today  and  I  look  like  the  old  scratch.  I  went  to  a 
stream  in  a  hollow  where  there's  a  lot  of  coons,  and  I 
never  got  a  bite.  A  coon  fishes  just  as  well  as  any  man, 
and  they've  cleaned,  the  stream  out. 

"There's  a  trout  pond  back  of  the  house  that  I  made, 
but  year  before  last  it  went  dry.  We  had  no  rain  for 
weeks,  and  the  water  went  down  and  down,  and  the 
brook  that  flowed  into  it  sank  away  to  nothing.  When 
the  pond  had  dwindled  to  a  pool  we  could  see  the  big 
trout  sailing  around  in  there,  and  finally  a  cousin  who 
was  stopping  with  us  caught  them  all.  But  he  had  a 
job,  for  a  trout  is  a  terribly  tigery  fellow.  We  had  fish 
to  eat  and  to  throw  away,  but  I  wouldn't  touch  them. 
I'd  as  soon  have  eaten  my  own  grandfather.  I  don't 
like  to  eat  any  of  our  wild  creatures  that  we  see  growing 
and  running  about.  I  couldn't  eat  a  rabbit  or  a  squirrel 
or  a  partridge — not  if  I  knew  it. 

"When  I  was  a  boy  this  town  had  four  times  as  many 
inhabitants  as  it  has  now,  and  they  made  a  better  living 


1 


r  %.\  i     .*-y"  t,<r&t    "        v*»  *   **i( 


Harvest  time 


August  in  the  Berkshire  Hills  147 

than  the  smaller  number  does  at  present.  Only  one 
child  was  born  in  the  place  last  year.  There's  no  store 
here,  and  if  there  was  we'd  run  it  into  the  ground  in 
short  order.  Such  times  as  we  was  without  money  we'd 
go  to  it  and  get  trusted,  but  if  we  had  ten  cents  cash 
in  our  pockets  we'd  go  to  Pittsfield  and  spend  it. 

"There  used  to  be  three  taverns  in  this  little  town. 
That  big  old-fashioned  house  near  the  church  was  one 
of  the  most  noted  hostelries  between  Canada  and  Long 
Island  Sound.  Everybody  could  get  drunk  there  and 
enjoy  himself.  The  town  had  such  repute  as  a  roister- 
ing place  that  people  used  to  say  any  person  who  was 
born  and  lived  up  to  manhood  and  died  without  coming 
to  New  Ashford  died  a  fool.  About  all  the  people  drank 
in  my  youth.  My  father  was  a  temperance  man,  but 
he  would  get  ten  gallons  of  rum  every  year  for  his  two 
hired  men  to  drink  through  haying. 

"In  those  days  great  droves  of  cattle  went  through 
here  on  their  way  to  Connecticut.  They'd  stop  in  the 
village  over  night.  We've  kept  enough  in  a  year  at 
four  dollars  a  hundred  head  to  come  to  one  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars.  The  cattle  would  be  turned  into  our 
pasture,  or,  if  it  was  autumn,  into  the  mowing,  and  the 
drovers  would  bunk  in  anywhere  about  the  house  or 
barn. 

"Jim  Fisk,  the  New  York  financier,  passed  through 
here  often  as  a  young  man  driving  a  cart  like  a  circus 
wagon  with  four  horses  attached.  He  was  a  high-toned 
peddler.  His  father  visited  the  town  too,  and  would 


148        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

stop  at  the  tavern.  It  was  said  that  once  when  he  was 
there  he  lied  and  so  cheated  a  man  out  of  ten  cents. 
Later  Jim  was  told  of  what  his  father  had  done,  but 
he  said:  "I  don't  believe  it.  He  wouldn't  do  anything 
as  small  as  that.  He  wouldn't  lie  for  ten  cents,  but  he 
might  tell  ten  lies  for  a  dollar.' 

"We  have  a  saying  here  that  our  church  was  built  by 
the  devil.  You  see,  there  was  no  church  in  the  place 
for  a  long  time  after  the  region  was  settled.  One  night 
a  lot  of  the  local  men  were  in  the  bar  room  at  the  tavern 
drinking  and  they  got  to  saying  it  was  too  bad  the  town 
didn't  have  a  meeting-house.  So,  although  they  were 
as  wicked  a  set  of  men  as  ever  lived,  they  subscribed  a 
hundred  dollars  apiece  on  the  spot.  I  can  remember 
when  the  church  was  building,  and  how  I,  like  a  little 
fool  of  a  boy,  climbed  up  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  gallery 
and  slid  back  and  scraped  my  shins. 

"A  student  from  Williams  College  preaches  for  us. 
He  comes  down  with  the  stage  driver  Saturday  and 
goes  back  Monday.  A  woman  at  the  corner  boards 
him  and  keeps  him  posted  as  to  what  is  going  on  in 
town.  She's  one  of  the  kind  that  feels  it  her  duty  to 
let  the  world  know  all  that  she  knows.  We  pay  this 
young  man  two  dollars  and  a  half  a  Sunday.  He's 
poor  and  he's  learning  to  preach,  and  he's  got  a  girl 
he's  going  to  marry  as  soon  as  he  gets  through  college. 
So  it's  a  very  good  thing  for  him." 

Nothing  can  be  more  attractive  in  half  wild  rural 
roadways  than  those  that  wind  through  the  glens  of 


August  in  the  Berkshire  Hills  149 

New  Ashford,  and  not  many  miles  away,  at  Williams- 
town  is  the  most  beautiful  town  street  in  the  county. 
I  doubt  if  this  is  excelled  in  America.  It  is  impressively 
broad,  there  are  noble  trees  and  velvet  lawn,  it  undulates 
piquantly  up  and  down  the  hills,  here  and  there  along 
it  are  simple  old  college  halls  that  have  the  charm  of 
venerable  age,  and  modern  college  buildings  of  great 
architectural  grace,  while  roundabout  are  the  serene 
blue  mountain  ranges. 

While  I  was  loitering  on  the  grass  of  the  park-like 
street  a  man  came  shambling  along  and  accosted  me. 
He  had  been  drinking,  and  his  breath  was  odorous  and 
his  clothes  dirty,  and  the  flies  swarmed  around  him  as 
if  he  was  a  choice  morsel.  He  was  bound  to  talk,  and 
I  maneuvered  to  get  where  the  wind  would  carry  his 
aroma  away  from  me.  I  did  not  care  for  his  opinion  as 
to  how  the  president  of  the  United  States  ought  to  run 
the  country,  and  I  asked  him  a  question  about  Grey- 
lock,  the  loftiest  height  not  only  of  those  within  view, 
but  of  all  in  the  state. 

"You  see  that  nearest  mountain,"  he  said  pointing. 
"You  think  that's  pretty  high,  don't  you?  Well,  it 
looks  so;  but  you  get  on  the  top  of  Greylock  and  see 
this  thing  here — why,  'tain't  nothing'  only  a  little 
haystack.  I  used  to  live  at  the  foot  of  Greylock  on  the 
western  side.  The  first  time  I  was  ever  on  top  of  the 
mountain  was  when  I  was  sixteen  years  old.  There 
was  a  circus  right  over  the  other  side  of  the  mountain 
at  Adams,  and  I  wanted  to  go  to  it  and  spend  seventy- 


150        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

five  cents  that  I  had.  So  I  started  off  to  walk  over  the 
mountain,  though  I  was  a  good  deal  scared  because  I 
didn't  know  but  I  might  run  against  a  catamount  or 
something.  I  went  right  up  to  the  highest  part  of  the 
mountain.  It  was  steeper  on  the  other  side,  and  pretty 
soon  I  come  to  some  ledges  where  I  couldn't  see  no 
path,  and  the  rocks  seemed  to  go  down  so  perpendicular 
and  so  far  that  I  thought  I  could  jump  right  down  into 
the  town.  But  I  found  a  great  big  pine  tree  growing  up 
from  below,  and  the  top  was  close  enough  to  the  edge 
of  the  cliff  for  me  to  get  into  the  branches,  and  I  slid 
down  it  as  nice  as  a  pin.  After  a  while  I  got  to  Adams 
and  I  had  a  great  day  at  the  circus  and  spent  my 
seventy-five  cents." 

It  is  from  the  valley  at  Adams  and  the  slopes  east  of 
the  town  that  Greylock  is  seen  most  imposingly.  The 
mountain  rises  in  steep  inclines  and  precipices  to  a 
height  of  thirty-five  hundred  feet,  and  seems  twice  as 
big  as  when  viewed  at  a  distance  on  its  less  abrupt 
approaches.  Probably  it  is  most  beautiful  when  its 
lofty  form  peers  out  vaguely  from  the  mists  like  a  piece 
of  heaven. 

The  last  place  where  I  stopped  in  the  county  was 
Savoy,  another  of  the  unthriving  smaller  villages.  It 
was  far  up  in  a  hollow  among  the  wooded  ridges,  and  a 
clear  trout  brook  flowed  along  only  a  stone's  throw 
from  the  cluster  of  houses  that  huddled  about  the  two 
little  churches.  One  of  the  industries  of  the  region  was 
the  gathering  of  ferns.  A  wagon  piled  high  with  large 


August  in  the  Berkshire  Hills  151 

boxes  full  of  the  ferns  passed  through  the  hamlet  while 
I  was  there  on  its  way  to  the  railroad.  The  ferns  were 
to  be  shipped  to  a  city  and  kept  in  cold  storage  until 
there  was  a  demand  for  them  in  the  fall  and  winter. 

"Some  of  the  people  here  make  six  or  seven  dollars 
a  day  picking  those  ferns,"  an  old  man  in  the  village 
informed  me.  "They  don't  any  of  'em  want  to  farm, 
and  when  they  get  a  good  chance  they  move  away. 
Twenty-five  years  ago  these  two  churches  used  to  be 
full  every  Sunday  morning.  The  people  drove  in  from 
all  around.  Now  there  are  fewer  of  'em  and  they  don't 
care  much  about  going  to  meeting  anyway.  The 
Methodist  church  is  not  used,  and  they  can't  raise  a 
congregation  of  thirty  in  the  other. 

"I  had  a  hotel  here  when  I  was  younger.  It  was  a 
long,  two-story  building  with  a  good-sized  wing.  There 
was  a  big  dance  hall  in  it,  and  people  came  here  to  dance 
from  the  valley  towns  and  everywhere.  They'd  eat  a 
turkey  supper  and  then  dance  most  all  night.  I  had 
old  Dick  Briggs  up  from  North  Adams  to  call  off. 
Besides,  I  hired  from  there  a  band  of  six  pieces,  and  if 
they  got  blowed  over  the  fence  on  the  way  home  I  was 
expected  to  pay  the  damages.  Yes,  once  the  wagon 
they  was  in  blew  up  against  a  fence  down  in  the  valley, 
and  the  fellow  with  the  big  fiddle  went  over  the  fence. 
They  sent  me  a  bill  for  damages  afterward. 

"There  was  lots  of  trout  them  times,  and  I  kept  men 
fishing  for  'em  and  had  trout  suppers  and  dinners  that 
people  were  glad  to  come  a  long  distance  to  get.  One 


152        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

of  my  patrons  was  a  young  man  who  was  the  son  of  a 
wealthy  manufacturer,  and  he'd  make  things  howl 
around  here.  Oh,  he  was  a  highroller!  One  of  his  tricks 
was  to  take  a  bundle  of  hay  out  in  the  road,  buy  a 
gallon  of  kerosene  to  pour  on  it  and  have  a  bonfire.  He 
went  to  college,  but  I  don't  know  whether  he  got  any 
education  or  not.  His  father  made  him  treasurer  of 
the  mill,  and  one  time  he  went  off  to  a  yacht  race  and 
lost  seventy-five  thousand  dollars  betting.  He  took 
the  payroll  money  to  settle  with,  and  then  his  father 
had  to  make  good  the  loss. 

"A  young  physician  had  an  office  at  the  far  end  of 
the  hotel,  and  one  spring  evening  he  filled  his  stove  full 
of  dry  stuff  and  went  off  and  left  it  burning.  He  ate 
supper  and  then  stood  out  in  front  of  the  hotel  talking 
with  some  feller  who'd  been  fishing.  The  next  thing  we 
knew  fire  was  coming  out  of  the  roof  over  the  doctor's 
office.  The  garret  was  all  one  long  apartment  full  of 
rubbish,  and  the  fire  went  through  there  as  fast  as  a 
horse  could  run.  Of  course  the  neighbors  all  came  to 
do  what  they  could  and  they  carried  out  the  feather 
beds  and  threw  the  mirrors  and  breakable  things  out 
of  the  windows.  The  hotel  barn  would  have  burned  if 
men  hadn't  got  onto  the  roof  and  spread  wet  blankets. 
I  was  a  big  fool  for  saving  that  barn.  It  wasn't  worth 
much  separate  from  the  hotel,  and  I  had  five  hundred 
dollars  insurance  on  it." 

NOTES. — Berkshire,  with  its  great  variety  of  scenery,  both  rugged 
and  pastoral,  is  one  of  the  most  attractive  resort  regions  of  New 


August  in  the  Berkshire  Hills  153 

England.  At  Lenox  there'  is  not  a  hilltop  or  a  valley  but  has  its 
splendid  house  and  far-flung  attendant  gardens,  and  each  mansion 
commands  some  natural  mountain  vista  of  great  beauty.  One  of 
the  striking  charms  of  the  larger  towns  is  their  broad  tree-lined 
park-like  streets.  The  historic  and  literary  associations  of  the 
country  make  a  strong  appeal  to  the  pride  of  the  residents  and  the 
interest  of  the  visitors.  In  the  Stockbridge  Valley  the  Housatonic 
or  "good"  Indians  had  their  chief  abode.  The  credit  of  Christian- 
izing them  belongs  to  John  Sargent,  who  came  into  the  wilder- 
ness here  at  the  age  of  twenty-four  mastered  their  language, 
and  preached  three  or  four  sermons  a  week  to  them.  At  the 
west  end  of  Stockbridge's  Main  Street  is  the  old  Indian  burial 
ground. 

In  1751  that  greatest  of  colonial  preachers,  Jonathan  Edwards, 
came  to  Stockbridge  to  assist  in  the  task  of  converting  the  red 
heathen.  His  grandson,  the  notorious  Aaron  Burr,  spent  a  part  of 
his  boyhood  in  the  town.  The  poet  Bryant  for  a  time  practiced 
law  in  Great  Barrington,  and  found  inspiration  in  the  vicinity  for  a 
number  of  his  poems.  Hawthorne  lived  at  Lenox  when  he  wrote 
"Tanglewood  Tales."  Holmes  had  an  estate  in  Pittsfield,  and 
Longfellow  passed  his  summers  in  one  of  the  town  homes  and  there 
wrote  "The  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs." 

At  the  north  end  of  the  country  is  Williamstown  with  its  famous 
college,  and  Greylock,  monarch  of  the  Massachusetts  mountains. 
A  road  ascends  to  the  summit  of  the  mountain,  and  in  good  weather 
automobiles  can  make  the  trip.  Through  Williamstown  and 
easterly  over  Hoosac  Mountain  passed  the  trail  of  the  Mohawks, 
and  this  is  still  dimly  visible  in  places. 

The  main  highways  of  Berkshire  are  excellent  for  motoring,  and 
most  of  the  byways  are  passable  except  in  unfavorable  weather. 
As  for  the  mountainous  sections,  these  are  the  tramper's  paradise 
with  their  enticing  paths  and  woodroads.  The  region  is  at  its  best 
in  spring  when  the  leaves  and  blossoms  are  putting  forth,  or  in 
autumn  when  the  foliage  is  aflame  with  tints  of  scarlet  and  gold, 


154        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

but  the  beauty  of  midsummer  and  the  white  glory  of  the  winters 
are  scarcely  less  worthy  of  being  enjoyed. 

Balanced  Rock  is  the  county's  greatest  natural  curiosity.  This 
is  reached  by  a  pleasant  drive  northeasterly  from  Pittsfield.  Its 
height  is  eighteen  feet,  its  weight  about  one  hundred  and  fifty  tons, 
and  it  rests  on  one  square  foot  of  surface;  and  yet  it  is  so  evenly 
balanced  as  to  be  readily  swayed  by  a  man's  weight. 


VIII 

THE    PORT    OF    THE    FISHERMEN 

THE  fame  of  Gloucester  as  the  greatest  of 
American  fishing  ports,  and  the  fact  that  so 
many  of  its  inhabitants  spend  their  lives  in  an 
unusually  picturesque  and  dangerous  calling  lend  it  a 
peculiar  charm.  It  is  on  the  rock-ribbed  outreach  of 
Cape  Ann,  and  from  the  summits  of  its  steep  hills  you 
can  look  far  off  over  the  hazy  ocean,  while  on  the  nar- 
row, irregular  streets  of  its  waterfront  with  their  noisy 
saloons  and  numerous  dingy,  broken-windowed  build- 
ings you  see  many  weather-browned  sailor  folk  and  get 
frequent  glimpses  of  the  fishing-vessels  lying  at  the 
wharves.  Then,  too,  there  are  odors — salty,  fishy  smells 
that  are  agreeably  suggestive  when  not  too  pronounced, 
but  which  in  some  sections  make  you  step  along  in 
haste  to  escape  them,  and  there  are  times  when  the 
entire  town  is  enveloped  with  the  aroma  from  certain 
outlying  glue  factories. 

My  acquaintance  with  Gloucester  began  on  a  summer 
afternoon  when  it  was  in  gala  attire  celebrating  an 
Old  Home  Week  holiday.  The  business  streets  were 
crowded,  and  I  was  glad  to  get  off  them  down  to  the 
wharves.  There  I  found  everything  very  quiet,  the 
buildings  closed,  the  acres  of  flake  yards,  where  the 


1 56        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

fish  are  dried,  vacant,  and  almost  no  work  being  done. 
Presently  I  happened  on  a  group  of  loafers — "old 
Homeweekers,"  they  called  themselves.  They  were  in 
a  spar  yard — a  space  strewn  with  chips  and  shavings 
and  long,  straight  logs,  some  in  the  rough,  and  some 
smooth  and  round  and  nearly  ready  to  be  fitted  onto 
the  vessels.  The  loafers  were  socially  inclined,  the  more 
so,  no  doubt,  because  they  had  been  indulging  rather 
freely  in  whiskey.  One  of  them  had  fallen  into  the 
water.  He  looked  bedraggled,  yet  was  cheerfully  smok- 
ing his  pipe  and  seemed  to  think  his  ducking  had  been 
quite  a  humorous  performance. 

The  most  voluble  of  the  group  slapped  me  familiarly 
on  the  back  and  said:  "I'll  tell  you  just  how  it  hap- 
pened. I'll  give  it  to  you  straight.  Our  friend  here  fell 
in — we  have  those  occasions  that  way,  you  know.  He 
stepped  into  a  dory,  and  it  tilted  and  tipped  him  out. 
The  rest  of  us  shouted,  'Man  overboard!'  and  started 
to  run  to  help  him.  But  he  was  in  no  special  danger. 
It  was  low  tide  and  the  water  was  so  shallow  he  could 
stand  on  the  bottom  and  hold  on  to  the  side  of  the  boat. 
One  of  the  soberest  of  us  soon  got  him  by  the  collar 
and  drew  him  out  to  give  him  one  more  drink  on  shore." 

When  this  narrative  was  concluded  I  resumed  my 
rambling,  and  by  and  by  I  came  across  a  skipper  and  a 
sailor  on  a  rather  small  and  rusty  schooner.  We  ex- 
changed greetings  and  I  climbed  abroad.  The  deck  was 
cluttered  with  ropes,  anchors,  coils  of  fishlines,  and 
similar  truck,  and  near  the  bow  was  a  nest  of  dories — 


The  Port  of  the  Fishermen  157 

several  rowboats  set  one  inside  of  the  other.  The 
skipper  was  looking  over  his  fishing-gear  and  trying  to 
figure  out  some  problem  in  connection  with  increasing 
the  number  of  hooks  on  the  lines.  He  thought  he  ought 
to  solve  the  difficulty  easily;  for  when  he  was  a  lad  he 
had  gone  through  one  book  of  algebra  and  started 
another.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "I  was  well  educated,  and 
at  the  age  of  fourteen  I  knew  five  different  languages. 
My  parents  were  Swedes  living  in  Finland;  so  I  learned 
to  talk  their  language  and  the  language  of  the  country, 
and  it  was  easy  in  the  town  where  we  had  our  home  to 
pick  up  Russian,  German  and  English.  Finland  is  a 
fine  country,  if  it  wasn't  for  the  way  the  Russians  treat 
the  inhabitants." 

"Ah,  dose  Russians!"  the  sailor  exclaimed.  "I  don't 
know  why  dey  are  so  savage.  Dose  are  der  people,  by 
gosh,  dat  der  missionaries  ought  to  be  sent  to  civilize!" 

"Well,"  the  skipper  said,  continuing  his  personal 
story,  "I  went  to  sea  because  that  was  the  only  way  to 
get  rid  of  bad  companions  I'd  fallen  in  with;  and  the 
men  ain't  all  angels  on  the  sea,  either.  I've  sailed  most 
everywhere — had  eight  days  in  a  week  crossing  the 
Pacific,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

But  of  late  years  he  had  been  the  captain  of  a 
Gloucester  fishing  schooner.  "It's  curious,  the  way 
we  manage,"  he  said.  "I  take  this  vessel  which  belongs 
to  a  firm  here,  and  go  off  with  it  and  handle  ten  or 
twelve  thousand  dollars  that  the  fish  we  catch  during  a 
year  sell  for,  and  never  give  any  security.  It's  the  same 


158        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

with  the  rest  of  the  skippers.  There's  no  class  of  shore 
people  who  could  get  trusted  that  way.  When  we  are 
starting  off  on  a  trip  we  buy  food,  bait,  ice,  and  such 
things  all  on  tick,  to  be  paid  for  at  the  end  of  the  voyage. 
One-fourth  of  one  per  cent  of  the  total  receipts  goes  to 
the  Widows'  and  Orphans'  Fund,  and  a  quarter  of  the 
balance  is  for  the  boat,  and  the  rest,  after  taking  out 
the  expenses,  is  for  the  fishermen.  There  are  ten  men 
go  on  this  boat.  Suppose  we  come  in  with  a  stock  of 
one  thousand  dollars.  The  boat  gets  two  hundred  and 
fifty,  and  the  expenses  are  about  two  hundred.  That 
leaves  five  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,  or  fifty-five  dollars 
apiece. 

"We  all  share  exactly  alike  except  the  cook,  who  is 
given  ten  dollars  extra.  You  see  it  depends  more  on 
him  than  on  any  one  else  whether  we  have  a  good  voyage 
or  not.  He  can  make  the  trip  shorter  or  longer  just  as 
he  pleases.  If  he  ain't  kept  good  natured  he'll  like 
enough  oblige  you  to  start  for  home  before  you've  got  a 
full  fare.  For  instance,  he  may  use  the  water  to  ex- 
treme, taking  fresh  when  salt  would  do  just  as  well. 
I've  had  plenty  of  water  on  board  for  four  weeks,  and 
it  would  hardly  last  half  that  time.  Then  he  may  boil 
for  one  meal  food  enough  to  last  two  days  and  heave 
overboard  what  ain't  eaten. 

"After  we  reach  port,  the  minute  the  fish  are  out  of 
the  vessel,  we  get  a  check  for  'em,  and  if  it's  before  the 
banks  close  we  settle  up  that  day  and  every  man  is  at 
liberty.  The  captain's  share  is  the  same  as  that  of  the 


The  Port  of  the  Fishermen  159 

others;  but  twice  a  year  the  owners  pay  him  from 
three  to  ten  per  cent  of  what  the  boat  itself  has  earned. 
There's  a  sharp  competition  to  get  the  skippers  that 
make  the  biggest  catches,  and  such  men  can  command 
fancy  pay. 

"The  money  the  fishermen  receive  goes  in  all  sorts 
of  ways,  good  and  bad.  Some  sailors,  even  if  a  trip 
netted  'em  a  hundred  dollars  a  day,  would  spend  it  as 
freely  as  they  made  it,  and  you  can't  get  'em  to  go 
again  till  their  money's  all  gone.  The  vessel  lies  in 
port  a  couple  of  days  or  so  and  then  starts  on  another 
cruise.  I  used  to  take  four  or  five  fishermen  and  the  rest 
greenhorns;  but  the  greenhorns  so  soon  got  to  know 
more'n  I  did  that  I  ain't  goin'  to  break  in  any  more.. 

"The  skipper  has  got  to  deal  square  with  his  crew, 
for  if  he  ain't  pretty  honest  they  won't  go  with  him. 
One  poor  settlement  and  they  are  done.  Then,  too,  it's 
impossible  to  get  the  men  behind  the  gun  unless  he's 
generally  successful.  If  he  don't  make  money  they'll 
find  places  in  other  vessels. 

"We  have  to  go  farther  and  work  harder  to  get  a 
cargo  of  fish  than  we  used  to.  Fifty  years  ago  boats 
would  come  into  Boston  so  loaded  with  fish  they 
couldn't  sell  'em  all  and  would  have  to  go  out  to  sea 
and  dump  the  rest  overboard.  We  don't  dump  any 
fish  nowadays,  and  if  it  wasn't  for  the  hatcheries  there'd 
be  a  complete  famine  in  'em.  They're  nowhere  near 
so  plentiful,  but  we  make  as  much  as  ever  we  did  be- 
cause the  price  is  a  great  deal  higher." 


160        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

This  skipper  spoke  rather  lightly  of  the  dangers  of 
the  business,  though  he  mentioned  a  recent  trip  when 
they  had  a  thrilling  experience  in  a  fog.  They  heard  a 
great  steamer  coming.  Not  a  breath  of  wind  was  stir- 
ring, and  the  schooner  lay  helpless  right  in  the  path  of 
the  approaching  monster;  but  their  fog-horn  was  heard 
in  time  to  allow  the  steamer  to  stop  its  engines  and  shift 
its  course,  or  the  little  boat  would  have  been  crushed 
like  an  eggshell. 

When  a  schooner  arrives  on  the  fishing  grounds  the 
dories  are  hoisted  overboard  and,  with  two  men  in 
each,  go  out  to  set  the  trawls.  A  trawl  is  a  line  about  a 
mile  long  from  which  a  thousand  hooks  hang  on  smaller 
lines  two  or  three  feet  in  length.  At  each  end  of  the 
trawl  is  a  keg  float,  and  these  floats  are  marked  with  the 
vessel's  name.  They  are  anchored,  and  the  trawl  rests 
on  the  bottom.  In  fine  weather  the  dories  are  out 
early  every  day  taking  up  the  trawls.  A  boat  starts  at 
one  end  of  a  trawl,  and  as  fast  as  the  men  remove  the 
fish  from  the  hooks  and  put  on  fresh  bait  they  throw 
the  line  overboard.  The  schooner  itself  does  not 
anchor,  but  cruises  around  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
trawls.  While  the  dories  are  out  the  captain  and  cook 
who  remain  on  board  handle  the  ship  and  keep  a  sharp 
lookout  for  possible  danger. 

The  Grand  Banks  of  Newfoundland  are  the  great 
fishing-ground  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic,  and  there 
you  find  vessels  all  the  year  round.  It  is  a  chilly  and 
foggy  region,  and  in  winter  its  dreariness  and  danger 


The  Port  of  the  Fishermen  161 

are  increased  by  frequent  gales  and  snowstorms.  If 
sky  or  sea  show  any  hint  of  threatening  weather  while 
a  schooner's  crew  is  out  a  recall  signal  is  hoisted.  But 
sometimes  the  gale  rises  so  suddenly  that  one  or  more 
of  the  dories  to  leeward  fail  to  get  back.  The  strong 
tides  of  the  Banks  and  the  shoal  waters  help  to  pile  up 
the  great  combing  seas,  and  very  likely  it  is  bitterly 
cold.  What  chance  have  the  fishermen  in  their  frail 
little  crafts  to  withstand  the  keen  blasts  and  rag- 
ing waters?  Not  infrequently  a  dory  with  two  dead 
bodies  in  it,  or  more  often  empty  and  perhaps  tossed 
bottom-up  by  the  waves,  is  all  that  tells  the  story  of  a 
lost  boat  and  its  crew. 

Every  year,  too,  dories  go  hopelessly  astray  in  the 
sudden  winter  fogs.  The  fishermen  who  fail  to  reach 
the  schooner  find  themselves  enveloped  in  a  dense 
chilling  mass  of  gloom,  without  food  and  without  water. 
One  would  think  each  dory  might  carry  a  few  emergency 
supplies,  but  the  fishermen  seem  to  prefer  to  take 
chances.  When  the  fog  lifts  they  have  drifted  many 
miles  and  are  being  borne  by  winds  and  currents  they 
know  not  whither.  Sometimes  they  make  land  or  are 
picked  up  by  a  passing  vessel;  but  usually,  death 
comes  after  long  days  of  hunger  and  thirst,  hands  frozen 
to  oars,  and  possibly  madness.  When  the  schooner  on 
which  they  sailed  returns  to  port  it  enters  the  harbor 
with  its  flag  at  half-mast. 

Winter  is  the  time  especially  to  be  dreaded,  yet  one 
of  the  most  destructive  gales  in  all  the  tragic  list  was 


162        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

in  the  summer  of  1873.  It  occurred  on  a  Sunday,  a 
very  peaceful  day  in  Gloucester,  and  no  suspicion  was 
aroused  for  the  welfare  of  the  fleet  until  Tuesday  when 
news  arrived  of  a  terrible  storm  to  the  eastward  all 
along  the  Canadian  coast.  Houses  were  blown  down, 
trees  torn  up  by  the  roots,  and  the  tidal  wave  which 
accompanied  the  storm  carried  the  wrecked  vessels  far 
above  high  water  mark  and  left  them  stranded. 
Gloucester  lost  one  hundred  and  twenty-eight  men,  a 
number  greater  by  far  than  in  any  one  previous  gale. 
There  is  perhaps  no  other  business  which  is  pursued 
at  such  a  fearful  hazard  to  life  and  property.  Insurance 
rates  on  the  vessels  are  from  eight  to  ten  per  cent,  a 
year;  and  until  comparatively  recently  the  records 
showed  an  average  annual  loss  of  about  sixteen  vessels 
and  one  hundred  and  nine  lives.  The  grimness  of  these 
figures  is  emphasized  by  the  fact  that  though  Gloucester 
contributed  a  large  number  of  men  to  the  army  and 
navy  during  the  Civil  War,  yet  decidedly  more  of  its 
citizens  were  drowned  on  the  fishing  voyages  than 
perished  from  the  casualties  of  the  war  for  the  same 
period.  But  no  matter  how  many  victims  the  sea  may 
claim,  new  men  are  always  ready  to  take  the  vacant 
places,  and  there  is  no  halt  in  the  procession  that  leads 
to  an  ocean  grave.  It  is  to  be  noted,  however,  that  for 
some  time  now  there  has  been  an  almost  complete 
elimination  of  the  foundering  at  sea  of  vessels  with 
entire  crews.  This  is  due  to  a  change  in  the  design  of 
the  fishing-vessels  which  at  present  have  greater  depth 


The  harbor 


The  Port  of  the  Fishermen  163 

and  a  lighter  stern  than  the  old  type.  This  has  reduced 
the  fatalities  fully  two-thirds. 

When  a  schooner  is  on  a  cruise  the  decision  as  to  just 
where  it  shall  fish  depends  a  great  deal  on  the  depth  of 
the  water  and  the  character  of  the  bottom.  By  con- 
stant sounding  with  the  lead  line  an  expert  captain  gets 
to  know  the  realm  beneath  the  waters  very  thoroughly. 
The  lead  has  a  hollow  at  its  lower  extremity  in  which  a 
little  grease  is  inserted  so  that  a  sample  of  the  sea 
bottom  may  be  secured.  The  story  is  told  of  a  certain 
old  Nantucket  skipper  who  could  invariably  tell  just 
where  he  was  by  examining  the  soil  his  lead  brought  up. 
In  order  to  perplex  him,  his  crew  once  put  some  garden 
loam  from  the  home  island  in  the  cup  of  the  lead,  made 
a  pretense  of  sounding,  and  then  asked  the  skipper  to 
name  the  position  of  the  vessel.  The  old  fisherman 
tasted  the  dirt  on  the  lead — his  favorite  method  of 
determining  its  individuality — and  suddenly  exclaimed, 
"Nantucket's  sunk,  and  here  we  are  right  over  Ma'am 
Hackett's  garden!" 

Whether  the  fish  are  decreasing  or  not  is  a  question 
on  which  there  is  considerable  difference  of  opinion. 
Life  multiplies  in  the  sea  wonderfully,  and  at  the  same 
time  the  water  is  a  scene  of  boundless  destruction. 
There  is  perpetual  warfare  among  the  fishes,  and  the 
rulers  of  the  deep  are  the  strongest,  the  swiftest  and 
the  most  voracious.  The  carnage  is  appalling;  but 
without  it  the  ocean  would  soon  be  unable  to  contain 
its  inhabitants.  Probably  few  fishes  die  a  natural 


164        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

death,  and  some  seem  to  have  been  created  solely  to 
devour  others.  It  is  doubtful  if  there  is  any  species 
which  does  not  feed  on  some  other  species  or  its  own. 
Compared  with  the  enormous  consumption  of  fish  by 
birds  and  by  each  other,  the  destruction  due  to  the 
agency  of  man,  with  all  his  ingenious  fishing  devices, 
dwindles  into  insignificance;  and  yet  it  may  be  just 
this  additional  slaughter  which  disturbs  nature's  nice 
balance. 

The  shore  fisheries  are  certainly  not  what  they  used 
to  be;  but  there  are  men  well- versed  in  the  business 
who  claim  that  on  the  Banks,  cod,  hake  and  haddock 
are  as  plentiful  as  ever.  Halibut,  on  the  other  hand, 
are  acknowledged  to  be  constantly  decreasing.  As  to 
mackerel  and  herring  it  is  not  easy  to  decide.  They  are 
migratory  fish  that  come  and  go,  some  years  abundant 
and  other  years  few;  but  why,  no  one  knows.  If  there 
is  a  gamble  in  any  form  of  fishing  it  is  in  the  pursuit  of 
the  mackerel.  A  fleet  fits  out  in  the  spring  to  meet 
these  fish  coming  north,  and  half  the  vessels  "won't 
get  enough  to  pay  their  grub  bill,"  while  the  rest  will 
make  good  profits. 

The  number  of  fishermen  who  go  from  Gloucester  is 
about  five  thousand,  but  the  majority  of  them  are 
natives  of  New  Brunswick,  Nova  Scotia,  and  New- 
foundland. As  a  class  they  are  a  whole-souled  and 
admirable  type  of  manhood,  equal  or  superior  in  char- 
acter and  thrift  to  the  average  of  humanity  on  shore. 
Probably  one-half  of  the  five  million  dollars  in  the 


The  Port  of  the  Fishermen  165 

Gloucester  savings  banks  is  deposited  to  the  credit  of 
fishermen.  Their  usual  earnings  are  about  eight 
hundred  dollars  a  year  outside  of  board.  Some  of  the 
captains  clear  five  or  six  thousand  dollars.  The  crews 
are  made  up  of  picked  men,  for  skippers  won't  take 
weaklings  or  loafers.  A  good  many  of  the  men  must 
have  their  blowout  when  they  get  ashore,  but  not  more 
than  a  quarter  of  them  are  hard  drinkers,  and  fully  as 
large  a  proportion  do  not  drink  at  all.  Most  of  the 
blowsy,  sodden  loiterers  one  sees  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  Gloucester  waterside  are  of  a  quite  different  class 
from  the  fishermen.  They  are  what  is  known  as 
"lumpers" — that  is,  they  are  shore  workers  who  dis- 
charge cargoes  and  do  other  jobs  about  the  vessels  and 
wharves  for  a  lump  sum. 

These  fishermen  are  rarely  illiterates.  Practically 
all  of  them  are  able  to  read  and  write  and  to  transact 
without  assistance  the  necessary  business  connected 
with  their  voyages.  You  will  not  find  a  man  but  that 
can  figure  out  what  is  coming  to  him  and  he  knows  the 
amount  to  a  cent,  though  some  of  them  might  not  be 
able  to  figure  anything  else. 

Perhaps  their  most  remarkable  trait  is  courage,  for 
they  brave  death  with  apparent  unconcern.  A  Glouces- 
ter citizen  told  me  of  a  voyage  he  made  in  a  fishing 
schooner  which  encountered  a  fierce  storm  one  night 
in  a  bay  of  Prince  Edward's  Island.  They  were  en- 
veloped in  inky  darkness  and  when  they  attempted  to 
escape  to  the  open  sea  the  wind  was  dead  ahead.  A 


i66        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

seine  boat  in  tow  behind  filled  and  turned  over,  and  the 
jib  broke  loose  from  the  mast  and  trailed  in  the  water 
at  the  bow.  Several  attempts  were  made  to  get  out  on 
the  jib-boom  to  cut  away  the  retarding  sail,  but  the 
waves  broke  so  furiously  over  the  bow  that  the  men 
could  not  withstand  the  sledge-hammer  blows  of  the 
toppling  crests.  The  captain  declared  the  boat  could 
not  weather  the  night.  Yet  not  one  man  of  the  eighteen 
that  composed  the  crew  showed  the  white  feather.  The 
only  uneasy  creature  on  board  was  a  dog  in  the  cabin, 
and  he  was  howling  with  fear.  Every  time  he  felt  him- 
self dashed  about,  as  the  vessel  careened  wildly  amid 
the  waves,  he  let  forth  an  agonizing  yelp. 

The  captain,  on  whose  decisions  depended  the  fate 
of  the  vessel,  had  concluded  they  could  not  beat  around 
the  headland  into  the  open  sea,  and  that  they  were 
sure  to  go  on  the  rocks.  The  only  chance  he  saw  for 
saving  any  of  their  lives  was  to  turn  and  drive  directly 
for  the  shore.  He  therefore  jibbed,  and  a  few  minutes  on 
the  new  course  would  have  sent  them  all  to  the  bottom. 
But  after  a  moment  he  again  turned  the  prow  seaward 
and  they  finally  succeeded  in  clearing  the  dangerous 
point — and  through  all  the  terrors  of  the  night  the  crew 
never  evinced  the  least  symptom  of  fear. 

One  curious  characteristic  of  the  sailors  is  their  faith 
in  superstitions.  In  particular,  they  have  an  ineradi- 
cable belief  in  "Jonahs."  A  person  or  thing  that  causes 
a  poor  voyage  is  a  Jonah.  If  a  single  new  man  joins  a 
crew  and  there  is  a  small  catch  of  fish  that  cruise,  he 


Cleaning  fish 


The  Port  of  the  Fishermen  167 

is  a  Jonah.  One  man  is  known  to  have  hoodooed  three 
schooners  thus  in  a  twelve-month.  Very  strange  in- 
stances are  related  of  ships  "losing  their  luck"  when  a 
certain  man  sailed  on  them,  and  regaining  it  when  he  left. 

If  a  cake  of  ice  is  accidently  dropped  overboard 
when  a  vessel  is  preparing  for  a  fishing  trip  the  voyage 
will  be  fortunate;  but  if  the  hatch  should  fall  into  the 
hold  there  will  result  some  dire  disaster.  Scarcely  less 
serious  is  the  trouble  that  will  follow  if,  when  the  hatch 
is  taken  off,  it  is  turned  bottom  up.  In  such  a  case  there 
is  sure  to  be  a  good  deal  of  excitement  and  apprehension 
on  board. 

If  you  watch  a  ship  out  of  sight  you  will  never  see  it 
again. 

It  is  unlucky  to  have  an  umbrella  brought  on  board. 

It  is  unlucky  to  drive  nails  on  Sunday. 

Whistle  for  a  breeze  when  it  is  calm;  and  if  you 
would  have  the  wind  fair  stick  a  knife  in  the  after  side 
of  the  main-mast. 

If  a  bee  or  a  small  bird  comes  on  board  it  brings  good 
luck;  but  ill  luck  results  when  a  hawk,  owl,  or  crow 
alights  in  the  rigging. 

A  horsehoe  nailed  to  the  mast  is  a  protection  against 
witches. 

Have  nothing  to  do  with  a  man  who  comes  on  board 
with  a  black  valise,  and  don't  ship  with  him;  for  he  is 
sure  to  be  a  Jonah. 

Sunday  sail,  never  fail, 
Friday  sail,  ill  luck  and  gale. 


168        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

This  last  saying  has  lost  much  of  its  old-time  influ- 
ence, and  Friday  is  a  not  unusual  sailing-day  if  the 
weather  is  favorable. 

On  one  of  my  rambles  about  the  wharves  I  chanced 
to  observe  several  cats  on  a  schooner  that  was  preparing 
to  leave;  and  a  member  of  the  crew  told  me  that  it  was 
very  common  for  vessels  to  carry  a  few  pet  cats.  "The 
sea  seems  to  suit  'em  very  well,"  he  said,  "only  they 
won't  come  on  deck  when  it  blows  because  it's  too  wet. 
In  fine  weather  they're  out  around  most  of  the  time. 
We've  got  lots  of  rats  and  mice  in  the  ship,  but  the 
cats  don't  often  catch  'em  there's  so  many  places  for 
'em  to  hide.  In  the  spring  we  smoked  the  ship  out  with 
sulphur  to  smother  'em,  but  they  wa'n't  all  killed,  and 
they're  gettin'  plenty  again.  They  eat  up  piles  of  things 
for  the  cook — oh,  gracious,  yes!  and  clothes.  Some- 
times, too,  they  run  over  you  when  you're  asleep  and 
wake  you  up." 

The  vessel  next  to  that  which  carried  the  cats  had 
just  reached  port  with  a  cargo  of  salt,  and  its  skipper 
attracted  my  attention.  He  was  walking  the  deck  in 
evident  unrest,  and  a  dent  in  his  derby  hat  added  to  his 
aspect  of  hasty  vigor.  Presently  an  old  Irishman 
appeared  on  the  wharf  above,  and  the  skipper  called 
out,  "Are  you  one  of  the  shovellers  who  are  going  to 
unload  this  cargo?" 

"Yes,"  the  newcomer  replied. 

"Well,  there'll  be  three  others,"  the  skipper  said, 
"and  a  pair  of  horses.  You  holler  when  you  see  them 


The  Port  of  the  Fishermen  169 

horses  comin' — them  black  and  blue  horses  with  stripes 
around  'em,"  he  added  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes. 

I  did  not  await  the  advent  of  these  remarkable 
beasts,  but  wandered  into  a  near-by  flake  yard  where  a 
squad  of  men  was  busy  spreading  salted  fish  on  the  long 
lines  of  slatted  rocks  to  dry.  "Doesn't  the  salt  have 
any  bad  effect  on  your  hands?"  I  asked  the  workers. 

"No,"  the  boss  said,  "it  toughens  'em;  and  if  you 
have  a  cut  finger  or  anything  of  that  sort  the  salt  will 
help  it  to  heal.  The  cut  may  smart,  but  it's  gettin' 
better  just  the  same.  Salt  is  healthy  inside  or  out.  I 
eat  much  as  a  pound  a  day.  I  can't  get  mackerel  any 
too  salt  to  suit  me,  and  I  just  cover  my  beef  or  pork 
with  it.  The  doctors  used  to  say  salt  dried  up  the  blood, 
but  now  they  prescribe  it  as  a  medicine." 

A  companion  then  told  what  his  taste  was  in  regard 
to  salt.  After  that  they  compared  notes  as  to  how  their 
fathers  liked  it,  and  started  in  on  their  grandfathers, 
when  I  concluded  I  didn't  care  to  pursue  the  subject 
to  any  more  remote  generations  and  came  away.  On  a 
neighboring  street  I  stopped  to  speak  with  a  short 
elderly  man  who  was  leaning  in  comfortable  leisure 
against  a  telephone  pole  at  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk. 
He  proved  to  be  one  of  Gloucester's  notables — a  success- 
ful merchant,  and  the  inventor  of  various  improvements 
in  fishing  apparatus.  In  the  course  of  our  chat  he 
became  reminiscent,  and  said,  "When  I  was  a  boy,  I 
had  a  mother  and  younger  children  to  support,  and  I 
could  only  earn  five  dollars  a  month  on  shore;  so  I  went 


170        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

to  sea.  The  years  slipped  along  and  I  made  some 
money,  and  finally  went  down  to  Texas.  There  I  lost 
seventy  thousand  dollars  through  a  rascally  relative, 
and  then  I  come  back  here  to  start  over  again.  One 
thing  that  I  knew  was  needed  was  a  good  foghorn. 
Until  about  1880  our  fishing  schooners  didn't  have  any 
at  all,  and  the  men  would  blow  a  conch  shell  or  a  tin 
horn.  Then  a  clumsy  imported  mechanical  horn  was 
introduced.  Well,  I  spent  two  years  with  my  head 
between  my  knees  thinkin'  it  out — that's  the  reason 
I'm  so  round  shouldered.  But  I  was  determined  to 
make  my  foghorn  so  perfect  it  never  could  be  improved 
any  more;  and  I  did." 

He  had  a  combination  store  and  manufactory  not 
far  away  and  took  me  to  see  it.  There  he  sold  all  sorts 
of  nautical  supplies  and  handled  more  fish-hooks  than 
any  other  concern  in  this  country.  It  was  a  big  ram- 
bling wooden  structure,  a  curious  labyrinth  to  explore, 
and  the  business  had  grown  from  a  little  shop  that 
occupied  only  a  few  square  feet  of  one  floor.  "But  I 
begun  small,"  he  said,  "so  if  I  didn't  succeed  I  wouldn't 
have  far  to  fall." 

Gloucester  has  not  many  men  perhaps  of  this  inven- 
tive type;  but  self-reliance,  courage,  and  all-around 
ability  are  general,  and  it  has  as  much  of  the  romance 
suggestive  of  the  days  of  fable  as  one  could  find  any- 
where in  our  modern  American  world. 

NOTES. — Gloucester  is  thirty-eight  miles  from  Boston.  There  is 
macadam  road  all  the  way.  The  visitor  finds  much  of  interest  in  the 


The  Port  of  the  Fishermen  171 

old  buildings  of  the  city  and  its  fishing  industry  and  in  the  pictur- 
esque features  of  the  adjacent  shore  and  region  inland.  Norman's 
Woe,  made  famous  by  Longfellow's  "Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,"  is  off 
the  suburb  of  Magnolia. 

Half  way  to  Boston  is  old  Salem,  which  ranked  tenth  in  size 
among  the  cities  of  the  country  at  the  end  of  the  colonial  period 
but  is  now  the  one  hundred  and  twentieth.  Here  are  many  historical 
houses,  including  the  birthplace  of  Hawthorne,  and  the  old  witch 
house,  once  the  residence  of  Roger  Williams,  built  in  1635.  The  city 
has  one  of  the  best  historical  museums  in  the  country,  in  connection 
with  which  has  been  preserved  the  quaintest  little  colonial  church 
in  existence. 

Somewhat  beyond  Salem  is  Marblehead,  one  of  the  most  interest- 
ing of  American  seashore  resorts.  The  old  town  house  was  built  in 
1727.  Other  noteworthy  features  of  the  place  are  the  old  fort, 
the  old  powder  house,  and  the  Skipper  Ireson  house. 

Of  the  Massachusetts  coast  towns  north  of  Gloucester  probably 
none  would  better  repay  a  visit  than  Newburyport.  Here  are  many 
old  residences,  of  which  the  best  known  are  the  birthplace  of  Wil- 
liam Lloyd  Garrison  and  the  Lord  Timothy  Dexter  mansion.  The 
old  cemetery  merits  a  visit.  On  the  beach  in  the  vicinity  is  the 
Devil's  Den  Cave  where  during  the  witchcraft  delusion  the  devils 
were  supposed  to  dwell. 


IX 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  MINUTE  MEN 

IN  the  tragic  beginnings  of   the  War  for  Independ- 
ence the  minute  men  played  a  conspicuous  part, 
and  not  only  their  deeds,  but  the  name  bestowed 
on  them,  appeal  keenly  to  the  imagination.    They  were 
called  into  being  by  the  first  Provincial  Congress  of 
Massachusetts  which  met  in  Concord  in  the  autumn  of 
1774.    A  conflict  with  the  mother  country  was  plainly 
at  hand,  and  these  bodies  of  minute  men  were  to  be 
ready    at    the    briefest    notice    to    hurry    armed    and 
equipped  to  points  where  danger  threatened. 

The  region  especially  identified  with  them  is  in  and 
about  Lexington  and  Concord  and  few  historic  spots 
are  so  easily  accessible  or  so  richly  repay  a  visit.  The 
former  is  only  seventeen  miles  from  Boston,  and  Con- 
cord is  six  miles  beyond.  My  trip  was  made  in  the 
latter  part  of  April  at  the  very  season  of  the  old  combat 
which  was  the  precursor  of  the  long  war  for  freedom. 
I  reached  Lexington  Common  in  the  dusk  of  evening. 
The  sod  was  turning  green,  and  the  elms  were  begin- 
ning to  tassel  out.  Robins  sang  among  the  trees, 
and  I  could  hear  frogs  piping  in  the  marshes.  I 
secured  lodging  near  by,  and  then  night  came — a  chilly, 
moonlit  night,  the  exact  counterpart,  I  fancied,  of  the 


The  Land  of  the  Minute  Men  173 

night  of  the  eighteenth  of  the  same  month  back   in 

1775- 
With  the  first  gray  of  the  morning  I  awoke  and  looked 

forth  from  my  window  out  over  the  quiet  village  vague 
in  the  pallid  dawn.  That  was  just  about  the  hour  when 
the  British  troops  had  arrived  on  their  march  from 
Boston.  They  knew  that  the  Massachusetts  rebels  had 
been  collecting  military  supplies  at  Concord,  and  these 
supplies  they  proposed  to  destroy.  Every  farmer's 
barn  in  the  place,  the  town  house,  the  tavern  shed,  and 
the  miller's  loft,  served  as  storerooms  for  provisions  and 
munitions  of  war,  and  had  the  British  succeeded  in  their 
undertaking  they  would  have  seriously  crippled  the 
incipient  rebellion.  Eight  hundred  strong,  they 
stealthily  left  Boston  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  evening  just 
as  the  moon  rose,  crossed  in  boats  to  Cambridge,  and 
began  their  march. 

But  their  departure  did  not  escape  the  attention  of 
the  Boston  patriots,  who  promptly  displayed  a  signal 
light  from  the  spire  of  the  Old  North  Church,  and  soon 
messengers  on  the  mainland  had  mounted  their  horses 
and  were  galloping  away  along  the  country  roads  to 
carry  the  alarm.  One  of  the  messengers,  Paul  Revere, 
reached  Lexington  about  midnight,  and  a  few  minutes 
later  the  meeting-house  bell  was  ringing  to  bring  to- 
gether the  minute  men. 

The  meeting-house  stood  on  the  corner  of  the  triangu- 
lar two-acre  common  where  the  road  comes  from 
Boston,  and  just  across  the  highway  to  the  east  was 


174        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

Buckman's  Tavern.  Roundabout,  fronting  toward  the 
green,  were  several  farmhouses,  and  a  blacksmith's 
shop.  The  common  itself  was  rougher  then  than  now, 
and  instead  of  having  its  present  fine  elms  it  was  com- 
paratively bare.  There  the  minute  men  formed  in 
ranks;  but  the  cool,  damp  spring  night  was  far  from 
comfortable,  and  when  messengers  sent  out  on  the 
Boston  road  returned  and  reported  everything  quiet, 
they  concluded  Revere  had  been  mistaken.  Those  who 
lived  near  went  home,  but  most,  including  their  leader, 
Captain  Parker,  resorted  to  Buckman's  Tavern.  The 
night  wore  away  and  dawn  was  at  hand  when  the  men 
in  the  tavern  heard  galloping  hoofs  approaching.  They 
hurried  out,  and  a  messenger  halted  his  panting  steed 
and  announced  that  the  British  were  close  at  hand.  Cap- 
tain Parker  ordered  his  men  at  once  to  the  common,  and 
had  guns  fired  and  drums  beaten  to  rouse  the  region. 

The  minute  men,  about  fifty  in  number,  formed  in  a 
double  line  near  the  northeast  corner  of  the  green,  and 
at  a  little  before  five  o'clock,  the  enemy  appeared  and 
marched  onto  the  common  from  around  the  meeting- 
house. Major  Pitcairn,  the  second  in  command  of  the 
British  expedition,  ordered  the  Americans  to  disperse, 
and  some,  impressed  by  his  authority,  and  the  over- 
powering numbers  of  the  opposing  force,  were  ready  to 
obey.  Captain  Parker,  however,  declared  he  would 
shoot  any  man  who  left  the  ranks,  and  in  conclusion 
said,  "Stand  your  ground.  Don't  fire  unless  fired  on; 
but  if  they  mean  to  have  a  war  let  it  begin  here." 


The  Land  of  the  Minute  Men  175 

When  Major  Pitcairn  saw  that  the  squad  of  country- 
men paid  no  attention  to  his  command  he  discharged 
his  pistol,  and  with  angry  oaths  called  on  his  men  to 
fire.  The  first  volley  was  sent  over  the  Americans' 
heads,  but  the  second  rank  fired  right  into  the  midst  of 
the  band  of  farmers.  The  Lexington  men  now  scattered, 
and  in  a  desultory  way  discharged  their  guns  at  the 
smoke-enveloped  enemy,  but  inflicted  no  serious  dam- 
age. Of  their  own  number,  Captain  Parker  and  six  of 
his  followers  were  killed. 

The  green  has  continued  unaltered  in  size  from 
colonial  days  until  now,  and  from  it  can  be  seen  several 
of  the  same  dwellings  that  were  there  then.  The  most 
notable  of  these  is  the  Harrington  house,  to  the  front 
door  of  which  Jonathan  Harrington,  sorely  wounded, 
dragged  himself  after  the  fight  and  died  on  the  thres- 
hold in  the  arms  of  his  wife. 

I  chatted  with  a  town  employee  who  was  picking  up 
twigs  on  the  common  and  mentioned  that  I  intended  to 
visit  Concord.  "Oh!  you're  going  to  the  Holy  City, 
are  you?"  he  commented. 

That  was  his  way  of  recognizing  Concord  to  be  the 
Mecca  of  all  pilgrims  interested  in  history  or  literature. 
My  route  thither  was  by  the  old  hill  road  which  was 
the  road  traversed  by  the  British.  The  country  along 
the  way  is  still  rustic,  and  though  there  is  less  wood- 
land than  at  the  time  of  the  Revolution  forest  patches 
are  by  no  means  lacking,  and  there  are  numerous 
brushy,  ruinous  stone  walls,  and  many  substantial 


176        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

old-time  homes  with  the  portly  chimneys  that  show 
they  date  back  to  fireplace  days.  The  weather  was 
sunshiny  and  breezy,  jubilant  song  sparrows  trilled  in 
the  thickets,  and  I  saw  frequent  blue-birds  and  heard 
the  gentle  call  of  the  phcebes.  Human  life  was  also  in 
evidence;  for  the  farmers  were  drawing  wood,  getting 
out  fertilizer,  and  ploughing,  just  as  their  predecessors 
in  the  region  had  done  at  that  season  for  generations, 
even  back  to  the  time  of  the  minute  men. 

Concord  is  a  pleasant  country  town  in  a  mild, 
alluvial  valley.  The  valley  is  not  in  itself  particularly 
attractive,  but  the  village  with  its  various  venerable 
houses,  its  white,  wooden  churches,  and  serene  common 
is  wholly  delightful.  So  are  all  the  villages  of  the 
region  that  have  not  been  overrun  by  suburban  Boston. 

On  my  walk  from  Lexington  I  had  passed  a  number 
of  roadside  inscriptions,  each  locating  the  scene  of 
some  important  episode  in  the  old  British  raid.  The 
one  that  was  perhaps  the  most  interesting  marked  the 
spot  where  Paul  Revere  was  captured.  After  warning 
Lexington  he  had  resumed  his  ride  accompanied  by 
another  courier,  and  they  had  not  gone  far  when  they 
were  joined  by  Dr.  Prescott  of  Concord  who  had  learned 
of  the  foray  and  was  hastening  home  with  the  news. 
They  gave  the  alarm  at  every  house  as  they  passed 
until  they  were  brought  to  a  sudden  halt  by  a  recon- 
noitering  party  of  the  enemy.  Prescott  was  the  only 
one  of  the  three  to  escape.  He  jumped  his  horse  over 
a  wall,  and  by  a  circuitous  route  reached  Concord 


The  Land  of  the  Minute  Men  177 

about  three  o'clock.  So  there  was  time  to  get  out  the 
minute  men  and  to  secrete  many  of  the  military  stores. 

When  at  length  the  British  came,  the  minute  men 
fell  back  across  the  North  Bridge,  and  the  enemy  took 
possession  of  the  village.  They  began  to  burn  such 
spoils  as  they  could  lay  their  hands  on,  and  the  smoke 
rose  in  a  cloud  over  the  common.  But  they  destroyed 
very  little  compared  with  what  remained  untouched. 
For  instance,  one  of  the  dwellings  they  ransacked  was 
Colonel  Barrett's.  Some  of  the  stores  that  they  thought 
to  find  there  had  been  transported  to  the  woods,  and 
the  rest  had  been  concealed  in  casks  in  the  garret. 
Over  the  casks  Mrs.  Barrett  had  put  a  quantity  of 
feathers,  thus  averting  any  suspicion,  and  no  search 
was  made  beneath.  On  the  premises  of  another  citizen 
they  found  sixty  barrels  of  flour.  They  beat  open 
several  of  the  barrels  and  the  flour  was  scattered  around 
the  road  so  that  the  ground  looked  as  if  there  had  been 
a  fall  of  snow;  but  most  of  the  barrels  were  dumped 
unbroken  into  an  adjacent  mill  pond.  As  soon,  how- 
ever, as  the  British  were  gone,  the  Yankees  drew  off 
the  pond  and  got  the  barrels  out  onto  dry  ground. 
Very  little  water  had  penetrated  them  and  the  flour 
was  only  slightly  injured. 

Fighting  began  in  the  middle  of  the  morning  at  the 
North  Bridge,  and  the  three  companies  of  British 
troopers  who  had  been  posted  there  retreated  in  con- 
fusion to  the  town.  The  commanders  of  the  expedition 
began  to  be  alarmed,  and  after  some  uncertain  marching 


178        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

and  counter-marching  the  entire  force  started  for 
Boston.  They  had  gone  scarcely  more  than  a  mile 
when  they  were  ambushed  and  the  retreat  became  a 
rout.  Their  pursuers  preserved  little  or  no  order,  and 
every  man  chose  his  own  time  and  mode  of  attack, 
taking  shelter  behind  buildings,  trees,  and  stone  walls. 
The  whole  countryside  was  now  aroused,  and  the  in- 
vaders might  have  been  all  killed  or  captured  had  not 
reinforcements  reached  them.  The  fresh  troops  formed 
in  a  hollow  square,  and  into  the  shelter  of  this  square 
their  comrades  hastened,  many  of  them  so  overcome 
with  weariness  and  heat  that  they  lay  on  the  ground 
with  tongues  hanging  out  and  panting  like  a  tired  dog. 
The  fight  ended  only  when  they  reached  Charlestown, 
where  they  were  protected  by  the  guns  of  their  fleet. 
Nearly  one-fourth  of  those  who  started  on  the  expedi- 
tion had  been  killed,  and  the  American  loss  in  killed 
was  about  seventy. 

That  morning,  when  Major  Pitcairn  reached  Con- 
cord, he  had  called  for  a  glass  of  brandy,  and  as  he 
stirred  it  with  his  finger,  said,  "I  mean  to  stir  the 
damned  Yankee  blood  as  I  stir  this,  before  night!" 

He  succeeded,  but  not  with  the  results  he  had 
expected. 

Concord's  most  important  point  of  Revolutionary 
attraction  is  the  old  bridge  where  was  fired  "the  shot 
that  was  heard  round  the  world,"  though,  really,  I 
think  Lexington  has  first  claim  to  that  shot.  The 
present  bridge  is  a  simple  open  structure,  of  much  the 


The  Land  of  the  Minute  Men  179 

same  appearance  as  the  one  which  figured  in  the  fight, 
but  the  road  across  it  is  no  longer  a  highway  and  comes 
to  a  sudden  end  a  little  beyond  the  stream. 

Not  far  away  is  "The  Old  Manse,"  which  at  the  time 
of  the  Revolution  was  the  dwelling  of  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson's  grandfather,  the  Concord  minister.  From  a 
window  the  reverend  gentleman  watched  the  combat 
at  the  bridge.  The  house  is  a  ponderous  mansion,  far 
back  from  the  road  and  looks  lonely,  unsociable,  and 
even  gloomy.  Here  Emerson  himself  lived  when  he 
first  came  to  Concord  in  1834.  Most  of  his  early  life 
had  been  spent  in  Boston;  but  he  craved  "solitude," 
and  he  resorted  to  Concord  rather  than  to  some  other 
country  town  because  it  was  an  ancestral  home  of  the 
family.  In  the  Manse  he  wrote  many  poems  and  his 
first  published  book;  but  after  two  years  he  moved  to 
a  house  on  the  opposite  outskirts  of  the  village.  This 
house,  which  continued  to  be  his  home  until  his  death, 
is  a  white,  immaculate  dwelling  of  generous  propor- 
tions, open  to  the  sun,  and  having  a  certain  stately 
cheerfulness,  quite  in  keeping  with  the  character  of  its 
famous  occupant. 

In  the  spring  of  1843  Hawthorne  came  to  live  in  the 
Old  Manse  bringing  with  him  his  bride,  and  he  gave  the 
house  its  name.  The  villagers  seldom  saw  him,  for  he 
avoided  the  town  in  his  walks  and  made  no  efforts  to 
cultivate  acquaintances.  It  was  his  habit  to  bathe 
every  summer  evening,  after  nightfall,  in  the  river  near 
the  old  bridge  where  the  battle  was  fought.  The  three 


i8o        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

years  he  spent  at  the  Manse  were  for  him  a  period  of 
distressing  hardship,  and  he  was  compelled  to  return 
to  his  native  town  of  Salem  where  he  received  an  ap- 
pointment in  the  Custom  House.  Six  years  later,  after 
after  having  achieved  much  literary  success  and  a 
measure  of  financial  reward,  he  again  resorted  to  Con- 
cord and  bought  and  remodelled  a  house  which  he 
called  "The  Wayside."  It  is  a  peculiar  and  rather 
shapeless  structure  not  far  from  the  home  of  Emerson, 
with  a  steep  slope  behind  it  clad  with  evergreens. 

Hawthorne's  next  neighbor  to  the  south  was  Ephraim 
Bull,  the  originator  of  the  Concord  Grape.  Mr.  Bull 
had  moved  from  Boston  to  Concord  on  account  of  his 
health,  and  grape-raising  became  a  passion  with  him. 
He  planted  in  his  garden  the  best  varieties  he  could 
obtain,  but  none  of  these  could  be  relied  on  for  a  crop, 
even  in  favorable  seasons.  Wild  grapes  abounded  in 
the  vicinity,  and  from  one  of  the  seeds  of  these,  dropped 
perhaps  by  a  bird,  there  sprang  up  a  vine  on  the  borders 
of  the  garden  that  bore  fruit  of  uncommonly  good 
flavor,  with  little  of  the  foxy  taste  usual  in  its  kind'. 
So  Mr.  Bull  gave  it  care  and  cultivation,  planted  some 
of  its  seeds,  and  watched  and  waited.  Only  one  of  the 
seedlings  proved  worth  saving;  but  that  was  the 
famous  Concord.  He  picked  the  first  grapes  from  it  in 
1849,  and  the  original  vine  still  grows,  while  its  progeny 
have  gone  everywhere. 

To  the  north,  Hawthorne's  nearest  neighbor  was 
Bronson  Alcott,  who  continued  to  occupy  "Orchard 


The  Land  of  the  Minute  Men  181 

House,"  as  he  called  it,  for  a  considerable  period,  though 
his  habit  or  fate  during  most  of  his  previous  married 
life  had  been  to  move  on  an  average  about  once  a  year. 
In  the  library  at  Orchard  House  were  held  the  first 
sessions  of  the  Concord  School  of  Philosophy,  and  in 
that  same  room  Mr.  Alcott's  daughter  Louisa  wrote 
several  of  her  famous  books  for  children.  The  house 
seemed  to  me  a  somewhat  finicky  structure  of  the  bird- 
cage order,  but  it  was  shadowed  by  an  ancient  elm  of 
noble  size  and  proportions  that  relieved  the  architec- 
tural shortcomings  of  the  dwelling. 

Of  the  group  of  literary  notables  who  in  the  middle 
of  the  last  century  made  Concord  their  home,  Thoreau, 
the  most  peculiar  genius  of  them  all,  is  the  only  one 
who  was  Concord  born.  In  1837,  at  the  age  of  twenty, 
after  graduating  from  Harvard,  he  for  a  short  time 
taught  a  school  in  his  native  town,  and  then  he  applied 
himself  to  the  business  in  which  his  father  was  engaged 
—the  manufacture  of  lead  pencils.  He  believed  he 
could  make  a  better  pencil  than  was  then  in  use;  but 
when  he  succeeded  and  his  friends  congratulated  him 
that  he  had  now  opened  his  way  to  fortune  he  responded 
that  he  would  never  make  another  pencil.  "Why 
should  I?"  he  said.  "I  would  not  do  again  what  I  have 
done  once." 

So  he  turned  his  attention  to  miscellaneous  studies 
and  to  nature.  When  he  wanted  money  he  earned  it  by 
some  piece  of  manual  labor  agreeable  to  him,  such  as 
building  a  boat  or  a  fence,  planting,  or  surveying.  He 


1 82        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

never  married,  rarely  went  to  church,  did  not  vote, 
refused  to  pay  a  tax  to  the  state,  ate  no'  flesh,  drank  no 
wine,  did  not  use  tobacco;  and  in  the  estimation  of  his 
fellow-townsmen  he  was  for  a  long  time  simply  an 
oddity,  but  they  at  length  came  to  revere  and  admire  him. 

His  senses  were  remarkably  acute.  He  could  pace 
sixteen  rods  more  accurately  than  another  man  could 
measure  them  with  rod  and  chain.  He  could  find  his 
path  in  the  woods  at  night,  he  said,  better  by  his  feet 
than  his  eyes.  He  could  estimate  the  weight  of  a  pig 
or  a  calf  like  a  dealer.  From  a  box  containing  a  bushel 
or  more  of  loose  pencils,  he  could  take  up  with  his 
hands  just  a  dozen  pencils  at  every  grasp. 

It  was  his  custom  to  spend  a  portion  of  each  day  in 
the  fields  or  woods  or  on  the  Concord  River.  He  knew 
the  country  like  a  fox  or  a  bird.  Under  his  arm  he 
carried  an  old  music  book  in  which  to  press  plants,  and 
his  pockets  contained  his  diary,  a  spy-glass,  microscope, 
jackknife,  and  twine.  If  he  saw  in  a  tree  a  hawk's  or  a 
squirrel's  nest  that  attracted  him  he  climbed  up  to 
investigate,  and  he  often  waded  into  pools  after  water 
plants. 

The  best  known  episode  in  his  life  is  the  experience 
he  embodied  in  the  book  to  which  he  gave  the  title  of 
"Walden."  He  was  dissatisfied  with  society,  and 
wanted  to  prove  that  he  could  get  along  comfortably 
depending  wholly  on  himself  for  providing  food  and 
other  necessaries,  and  have  plenty  of  time  for  enjoy- 
ment. So  in  March,  1845,  at  the  age  of  twenty-eight, 


The  Land  of  the  Minute  Men  183 

he  "borrowed  an  ax  and  went  to  the  woods  by  Walden 
Pond."  This  pond  is  two  or  three  miles  south  of  the 
village,  an  irregular  sheet  of  water  with  an  average 
breadth  of  half  a  mile.  It  is  without  visible  inlet  or 
outlet  and  is  remarkable  for  its  depth  and  purity. 

Thoreau  bought  an  old  shanty,  tore  it  down,  and 
carried  it  piecemeal  to  the  pond  on  a  wheelbarrow.  He 
did  all  the  work  of  making  the  house  himself,  including 
the  digging  of  a  cellar;  and  the  entire  cost  was  less 
than  thirty  dollars.  The  cabin  had  no  lock,  no  curtain 
to  the  window,  and  belonged  to  nature  almost  as  much 
as  its  owner  did.  Here  he  dwelt  for  a  little  over  two 
years,  and  then,  he  says:  "I  left  the  woods  for  as  good 
a  reason  as  I  went  there.  Perhaps  it  seemed  to  me  that 
I  had  several  more  lives  to  live,  and  could  not  spare 
any  more  time  for  that  one." 

The  cabin  became  the  property  of  a  farmer  who  took 
it  away  from  the  woods  to  his  own  premises;  but  the 
spot  where  it  stood  is  marked  by  a  cairn  of  stones,  to 
which  every  lover  of  Thoreau's  genius  who  goes  thither 
adds  a  stone  from  the  shore  of  the  near  cove.  Ap- 
parently the  borders  of  the  pond  present  much  the  same 
aspect  they  did  in  Thoreau's  time.  Some  portions  of 
the  slopes  along  the  water  are  still  finely  wooded,  but 
a  little  farther  back  are  forlorn  cut-off  wastes  growing 
up  to  scrub  oak.  The  pond's  greatest  charm  of  course 
lies  in  past  associations;  and  it  is  just  this,  beyond  all 
else,  which  lends  fascination  to  all  the  region  of  the 
land  of  the  minute  men. 


184       Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

NOTES. — The  main  roads  in  the  region  are  macadam.  These  and 
the  steam  roads  and  the  trollies  offer  unusual  facilities  to  the 
sightseer.  Boston  is  near  at  hand  with  its  many  attractions,  his- 
torical and  architectural  as  well  as  those  connected  with  business 
and  pleasure.  Cambridge,  too,  can  be  easily  visited,  where,  among 
other  objects  of  interest,  are  Harvard  College,  the  oldest  and  best 
known  institution  of  learning  in  the  United  States;  the  elm  under 
which  Washington  took  command  of  the  American  army  in  July, 
1775;  the  homes  of  Longfellow  and  Lowell;  and  Mount  Auburn, 
the  oldest  cemetery  in  the  United  States,  and  in  which  are  buried 
many  famous  persons.  Another  place  particularly  worthy  of  a 
visit  is  Brookline,  a  wonderland  of  beautiful  estates  and  charming 
houses.  It  is  the  wealthiest  town  in  America. 


X 


AUTUMN    ON    CAPE    COD 

MY  acquaintance  with  the  cape  began  at  Sand- 
wich where  it  starts  its  outthrust  into  the 
Atlantic,  and  I  travelled  in  an  irregular  way, 
with  frequent  stops,  to  its  very  tip.  Autumn  had 
come.  The  days  were  still  warm,  but  the  nights  were 
decidedly  chilly,  and  early  in  my  jaunt  a  man  whom  I 
interviewed  in  his  cranberry  bog  informed  me  that  there 
had  been  a  white  frost  on  the  low  grounds  the  previous 
night. 

"I  was  afeard  our  crop  would  be  hurt,"  he  said;  "so 
I  was  out  till  most  twelve  o'clock  keepin'  some  brush 
fires  goin'  around  the  edges  of  the  bog.  The  fires  ain't 
expected  to  warm  the  air  much,  but  they  make  a  smoke 
which  settles  over  the  level  hollow  of  the  bog  and  is  a 
kind  of  protecting  blanket. 

"We  begin  pickin'  here  early  in  September,  and  the 
last  of  the  berries  ain't  gathered  until  toward  the  end 
of  October.  Often  the  bogs  are  three  or  four  miles  from 
a  village,  and  then  the  pickers  have  to  make  an  early 
start.  They  all  go  together  in  a  truck  cart.  It's  quite 
a  ride,  I  tell  yer,  bumping  along,  and  they  say  they  feel 
as  if  they  hadn't  had  any  breakfast  by  the  time  they 
get  there.  We  pay  thirty  cents  an  hour  for  grown 


1 86        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

people  and  twenty  cents  for  children;  and  they're 
expected  to  hustle  and  keep  steady  at  it.  We  ain't  got 
no  use  for  loafers." 

While  he  was  speaking  two  men  carrying  guns  came 
into  view  on  a  road  at  some  distance  from  us,  and  I 
called  his  attention  to  them.  "They've  been  huntin' ' 
he  affirmed,  "but  I  don't  believe  they've  had  much 
luck.  They're  about  forty  years  too  late  for  first  class 
sport.  Why,  when  I  was  a  boy,  you  could  go  down  on 
the  ma'shes  and  get  a  back-load  of  birds  in  a  little  while 
—plover  and  curlew  and  snipes  and  such.  Oh,  Lord, 
yes!  all  you  had  to  do  was  to  get  behind  a  stone  wall 
and  shoot  'em.  I  remember,  too,  when  you  could  go 
to  the  beach  with  a  pole  and  line,  and  in  half  an  hour, 
standing  right  on  the  land,  catch  all  the  cod,  mackerel, 
and  haddock  you  wanted.  Now  fish  are  scarce,  and  so 
are  the  ma'sh  birds,  but  we  ain't  worrying  about  that 
if  we  get  a  good  yield  of  cranberries." 

My  wanderings  at  length  brought  me  to  the  elbow 
of  the  cape,  where  I  concluded  to  try  walking  on  the 
beach  which  fronts  the  Atlantic  in  an  almost  straight 
and  unobstructed  course  for  a  score  of  miles.  I  had 
left  the  main  road  to  go  thither  when  I  paused  to  speak 
to  a  weather-reddened  old  sailor  who  was  in  his  back 
yard  visiting  with  his  pig.  The  pig  was  standing  on  its 
hind  legs  and  looking  out  of  a  little  window  in  the  rough 
hovel  that  served  it  for  shelter. 

"Ain't  that  a  nice  pig?"  the  man  observed  proudly. 
"It's  just  as  tame  and  gentle  as  can  be.  There's  a  boy 


A  relic  rj*  earlier  da\s 


Autumn  on  Cape  Cod  187 

from  my  next  neighbor's  who  likes  to  get  into  the  pen 
and  play  with  the  pig.  He  used  to  take  it  up  in  his  lap, 
but  it's  got  so  darned  heavy  now  that  wont  do. 

"I  want  to  show  you  a  pretty  good  flock  of  chickens. 
Chick,  chick,  chick!  come  on,  you  chaps!  I  bought  the 
eggs  in  the  spring  for  Plymouth  Rocks;  but  you  see  the 
chickens  are  all  colors.  There's  Wyandottes  and 
Rhode  Island  Reds  and  I  don't  know  what  not. 

"We're  havin'  fine  weather  now;  but  Sunday  and  a 
Monday  it  blew  a  living  gale  here.  That  was  the  line 
storm.  We  always  get  a  specially  heavy  one  about  the 
time  the  sun  crosses  the  equator.  The  weather  has 
been  kind  of  unfavorable  one  way  or  another  all  the 
year.  We  never  had  such  late  spring  frosts  and  such 
a  long  summer  drought.  Heavens!  we  were  all  dried 
up  here  one  time.  I  planted  beans  and  they  stayed  in 
the  ground  seven  weeks  before  a  single  sprout  showed. 
Once  in  a  while  we'd  get  a  little  make-believe  of  a 
shower  that  would  last  five  or  ten  minutes  and  then  go 
away.  So  the  crops  have  had  a  hard  time.  Did  you 
say  you  was  going  to  the  shore?  I  George!  I'll  hitch 
up  and  carry  you." 

Pretty  soon  he  was  ready  and  we  started.  "This 
horse,"  he  said,  "is  just  as  good-natured  and  gentle  as 
my  pig  is.  I  never  use  a  whip.  He  ain't  fast,  but  he's 
stiddy,  and  he'll  go  jog-jogging  along  same  as  he's 
goin'  now  all  day." 

Scarcely  was  this  eulogy  finished  when  the  horse 
shied  a  little,  and  my  companion  exclaimed:  "What  in 


1 88        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

blazes  do  you  see  there!  He  thought  he  saw  something 
over  in  those  bushes." 

I  called  his  attention  to  some  low  vines  that  overran 
the  ground,  whose  leafage  was  brightened  with  the 
sparkle  of  many  little  red  berries.  "Those  are  hog 
cranberries,"  he  said.  "Sometimes  fellers  come  from 
Boston  and  pick  tons  of  'em.  I  asked  the  fellers  once, 
'What  d'you  dew  with  them  old  things?' 

"They  told  me  they  made  medicine  out  of  'em.  Well, 
I  suppose  people'll  buy  and  take  any  sort  of  a  mean- 
tasting  stuff  if  it's  called  medicine." 

At  last  the  rutted,  rambling  roadway  came  to  an 
end  near  three  lighthouses  standing  in  a  group  on  the 
verge  of  a  sand  bluff  that  dropped  in  a  steep  slant  to  the 
sea  a  hundred  feet  below.  I  parted  from  the  old  sailor, 
and  half  walking,  half  sliding,  descended  the  bank. 
Now  I  had  old  ocean  before  me,  and  my  ears  were  filled 
with  the  mellow,  thunderous  roar  of  its  great  breakers 
pounding  on  the  narrow  beach.  For  the  sake  of  the 
walking  I  kept  to  the  damp  hard  margin  next  to  the 
sea,  though  often  compelled  to  beat  a  hasty  retreat 
when  a  bigger  wave  than  usual  sent  its  foam  scurrying 
up  to  my  path.  I  had  the  company  of  many  vessels 
sailing  along  the  horizon,  but  saw  not  a  human  being, 
nor  even  a  bird,  except  one  lonely  sandpiper  flitting 
over  the  huge,  curling  breakers.  Mile  after  mile  I  went 
onward,  always  with  that  same  wild,  exhilarating 
turmoil  of  the  sea  on  my  right  hand,  and  the  yellow  sand 
bank  looming  on  the  left.  As  a  whole  the  scene  was 


Autumn  on  Cape  Cod  189 

singularly  desolate  and  monotonous,  and  the  beach 
itself  furnished  no  variety  save  that  here  and  there  were 
strewings  of  pebbles,  a  few  shells  and  fragments  of 
seaweed,  and  at  rare  intervals  a  bit  of  wreckage. 

Finally  I  came  to  a  hollow  that  made  a  break  in  the 
sand-wall,  and  I  climbed  to  the  upland.  The  sun  had 
disappeared  in  a  low,  western  cloudbank,  and  a  gray 
gloom  had  overspread  the  earth.  A  faintly  marked 
road,  which  I  presently  discovered,  seemed  to  promise 
a  safe  conduct  through  the  woods  to  the  inhabited 
portion  of  the  Cape  on  the  west  shore,  and  I  stepped 
along  it  in  haste  lest  in  the  increasing  darkness  I  should 
lose  my  way.  Night  had  come  in  earnest  when  I 
arrived  at  Wellfleet  whose  thoroughfares  were  bright- 
ened to  some  slight  degree  by  a  scattering  of  kerosene 
street  lights.  I  found  a  hotel  and  had  supper.  After- 
ward I  sat  down  in  the  office  where  were  the  landlord 
and  one  of  his  local  friends  whom  he  addressed  famil- 
iarly as  "Mac."  Some  mosquito  bites  that  had  been 
inflicted  on  my  hands  during  the  day  were  still  painful, 
and  when  the  landlord  observed  me  rubbing  the  sore 
spots  he  divined  what  was  the  matter. 

"There's  mosquitoes  here  on  the  Cape  the  whole 
year  round,"  he  said,  "and  I  do  believe  Wellfleet  is  the 
worst  place  on  God's  earth  for  'em.  I  tried  to  do  a  little 
gardening  last  summer,  but  I  couldn't.  The  mosquitoes 
drove  me  into  the  house." 

"And  we  only  had  an  average  crop  of  'em,"  Mac 
commented. 


190        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

"No  matter  what  hour  of  the  day  or  night  I  went  to 
my  garden  they  were  right  there  waiting  for  me," 
the  landlord  continued.  "They  ain't  fussy  about 
workin'  overtime." 

"They  have  two  gangs,"  Mac  affirmed;  "or  perhaps 
there's  three  and  they  work  in  eight  hour  shifts." 

"I  thought  they  didn't  sing  as  much  as  usual  this  year," 
the  landlord  said.  "They'd  get  right  onto  you  and  if 
they  found  you  a  little  bit  tough  they'd  go  off  and  set 
down  in  front  of  you  and  whet  their  bills  and  then  come 
to  jab  again." 

"I've  been  to  some  of  our  low  meadows  where  they'd 
almost  carry  you  off,"  Mac  said.  "Seems  to  me  one  of 
those  meadows  would  make  a  good  penetentiary.  Just 
tie  your  criminal  there  and  let  'em  punish  him." 

"He'd  go  crazy  and  they'd  kill  him  in  a  little  while," 
the  landlord  declared.  "Up  in  the  Maine  woods  I've 
found  'em  pretty  thick  along  the  trout  brooks,  but  if 
you  built  a  smudge  they  wouldn't  bother  you.  Here, 
though,  they  are  on  to  all  those  dodges.  They  are  a 
useless  pest  and  ain't  even  good  for  fertilizer.  I  know 
a  feller  who  said  he  killed  a  lot  and  put  'em  in  the  rows 
where  he  was  plantin',  but  it  didn't  make  things  grow 
a  bit  better." 

The  next  morning  was  dull  and  rainy,  and  though 
the  hotel  cook  was  very  sure  at  breakfast  time  that  the 
rain  was  "going  to  dry  off"  at  once,  the  weather  con- 
tinued dubious  until  late  in  the  afternoon.  Then  the 
mists  lifted  a  little  and  I  went  for  a  ramble  about  the 


Earning  his  liv 


Autumn  on  Cape  Cod  191 

town.  It  is  a  very  tidy  village,  just  as  are  all  the  other 
Cape  Cod  villages.  Indeed,  the  snugness  of  the  Cape 
homes  is  phenomenal;  for  though  the  houses  are 
usually  small  they  rarely  fail  to  be  in  good  repair,  well- 
painted  and  neat  in  every  respect.  They  plainly  denote 
a  thrifty  people;  yet  life  seems  to  be  peculiarly  lei- 
surely, and  there  is  very  little  activity  apparent  on  the 
roads,  in  the  fields,  or  anywhere  else. 

A  chance  acquaintance  of  considerable  experience 
on  the  Cape,  in  commenting  on  these  characteristics, 
said:  "I  know  an  old  Cape  Cod  sea  captain  who'd 
been  going  on  voyages  ever  since  he  was  a  young  man, 
and  he  begun  to  consider  retiring.  Well,  his  wife 
thought  that  was  the  best  thing  for  him  to  do.  So  he 
got  a  little  place  and  fixed  it  up  and  stocked  it  with  a 
few  hens,  and  when  that  was  done  he  had  thirty-five 
dollars  in  cash  and  a  small  nest-egg  in  the  bank.  Time 
passed  along,  and  now  and  then  he'd  go  to  the  wharf 
and  catch  what  flounders  he  wanted,  or  he'd  make  a 
trip  down  the  bay  and  rake  a  few  clams,  or  steal  a  few 
oysters.  He  exchanged  hens'  eggs  for  groceries,  and  he 
raised  a  little  something  in  his  garden.  Nothin' 
worked  on  the  place  but  the  hens.  For  seven  years  he 
went  on  in  the  same  easy  way  and  found  then  that  his 
cash  in  hand  was  about  the  same  as  at  the  beginning 
while  his  bank  deposit  had  increased  twenty-eight 
dollars. 

"That's  typical  of  Cape  Cod.  The  people  don't  care 
to  exert  themselves.  There's  no  hurry  and  no  worry. 


192        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

They  live  simply  and  the  necessaries  can  be  had  with 
astonishingly  little  effort.  A  man  who  goes  out  raking 
up  clams  can  earn  from  three  to  six  dollars  a  day.  But 
he  can't  go  when  it's  rainy,  and  he  can't  go  when  it 
blows  hard,  and  other  days  he  won't  go  because  those 
are  nice  days  to  loaf.  Offer  him  a  job  on  shore  at  two 
dollars  a  day  and  he'll  tell  you  to  go  fly  up  your  flue. 
Such  wages  look  so  small  to  him  he  feels  insulted. 

"The  water  has  been  the  Cape's  chief  dependence 
for  a  living  in  the  past,  and  I  don't  know  but  it  always 
will  be.  We  can't  have  manufactories  because  the 
people  won't  work,  and  we  can't  prosper  at  farming 
because  the  soil  is  too  poor. 

"One  reason  for  the  absence  of  serious  poverty  is 
that  money  don't  slip  away  so  easily  as  it  does  in  most 
regions.  The  inhabitants  are  safe-guarded  by  the  fact 
that  there  are  no  places  of  amusement,  and  a  man  has 
very  few  chances  to  spend  his  earnings  foolishly.  But 
in  the  days  when  every  town  along  here  had  its  fishing 
fleet  the  sailors  were  a  class  who,  as  soon  as  they  reached 
port,  were  in  a  hurry  to  get  rid  of  all  their  cash.  They 
wouldn't  ship  again  till  it  was  gone.  That's  because 
they  was  afraid  they  might  be  drowned  next  voyage 
and  so  lose  any  money  they'd  saved  and  get  no  benefit 
from  it. 

"You  may  notice  that  the  Cape  folks  are  great  hands 
for  telling  yarns;  and  it's  a  curious  fact  that  when  a 
voyager  comes  home  and  tells  of  the  wonderful  things 
he's  seen  and  heard  and  done,  his  listeners  begin  to 


Autumn  on  Cape  Cod  193 

think  after  a  while  that  the  experiences  were  their  own, 
and  they  tell  them  as  such.  But  they  are  a  well  posted 
people.  You  see,  after  supper,  they  haven't  much  of 
anything  to  do  only  to  sit  down  and  read  the  paper,  and 
so  they  pick  up  at  least  a  smattering  knowledge  of  most 
everything.  They  are  a  very  honest  people,  too,  and 
always  do  as  they  promise,  though,  I  must  say  they 
make  the  closest  trades  of  any  set  I  ever  knew." 

The  chief  industry  of  Wellfleet  seemed  to  be  the 
getting  of  quahaugs — a  deep  water  clam.  "When  I 
first  visited  this  region  about  three  months  ago,"  one 
of  the  transients  at  my  hotel  said,  "some  men  in  the 
hotel  office  got  to  speaking  of  quahaugs.  The  word  was 
new  to  me,  and  it  struck  my  ears  very  funny.  'What 
kind  of  a  hog  was  that?'  I  asked — ' a  cow  hog?' 

"'No,  no!'  they  says,  'a  quahaug,'  and  went  on 
talking. 

"I  didn't  want  to  show  my  ignorance,  so  I  kept  still; 
but  pretty  soon  I  drew  one  of  the  fellows  outside  and 
asked  him  to  explain.  'I've  never  heard  of  any  such 
hog,'  I  says.  'Now  what  is  it?' 

"And  he  stooped  down  and  picked  up  a  shell  that 
lay  by  the  piazza,  and  he  says,  'There's  a  quahaug 
shell;'  and  it  was  nothing  but  a  clam  shell.  I've  eaten 
lots  of  those  clams  in  Boston;  and,  just  think!  they 
claim  some  of  'em  are  a  hundred  years  old!  Probably 
those  are  the  tough  bitter  yellow  ones  you  find  in  your 
chowder  sometimes." 

After  leaving  Wellfleet  my  next  stop  was  at  a  village 


194        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

where,  late  one  afternoon,  I  found  shelter  in  the  home 
of  a  fisherman.  While  we  were  eating  supper  that 
evening  we  fell  to  discussing  the  weather,  and  the 
fisherman  said:  "We  have  it  pretty  rough  here  in 
winter.  The  wind  does  blow  like  fury  and  chills  you 
to  the  bone;  and  yet  the  thermometer  seldom  gets 
down  to  zero.  I  s'pose  it's  the  dampness  that  makes 
the  cold  so  penetrating.  If  we  had  it  as  cold  here  as 
they  do  up  in  New  Hampshire  we  couldn't  live  on  the 
Cape  at  all." 

"Everybody's  glad  to  see  spring  come,"  Mrs.  Fisher- 
man affirmed.  "That's  a  great  time  here  for  shipping 
Mayflowers.  Some  families  will  go  all  hands  and  spend 
the  whole  day  picking  the  arbutus  under  the  pines. 
At  night  they  bunch  up  what  they've  gathered,  put 
damp  moss  or  cotton  round  the  stems,  and  in  the 
morning  send  it  on  the  train.  Herbert  Rogers  earnt 
enough  last  spring  that  way  to  buy  him  a  suit  of 
clothes." 

When  we  left  the  supper  table  the  fisherman  lit  his 
pipe  and  sat  down  for  a  comfortable  smoke.  "Don't 
you  think  it  makes  a  man  old  to  smoke?"  Mrs.  Fisher- 
man asked  me.  "I  tell  Charlie  he'd  be  ten  years 
younger  if  he  didn't  smoke." 

"Cap'n  Grozier  ain't  a  smoker,"  her  husband  com- 
mented, "and  he  don't  look  very  young." 

"Why  Charlie!"  Mrs.  Fisherman  exclaimed,  "he's 
eighty-five.  You  couldn't  expect  him  to  look  young." 

"I  do'  know  but  you'd  like  to  hear  about  a  little 


Autumn  on  Cape  Cod  195 

mix-up  I  had  a  while  ago  with  a  shark,"  Mr.  Fisherman 
remarked. 

"Oh,  for  pity's  sake,  Charlie,  don't  tell  that!"  his 
wife  interrupted. 

But  he  went  on  in  spite  of  her  protest,  and  said: 
"I  caught  one  that  would  weigh  two  hundred  pounds 
in  my  net,"  he  said,  "and  when  I'd  got  him  up  part 
way  over  the  edge  of  my  boat  he  nipped  me  just  above 
the  knee  by  the  slack  of  my  pants.  I  felt  his  teeth 
graze  my  leg.  I  gorry!  if  he'd  been  a  very  little  nigher 
he'd  have  got  me!  Well,  I  reached  for  my  sheath-knife 
and  cut  off  his  head.  Then  I  tried  to  open  his  mouth, 
but  his  teeth  were  clinched  and  I  couldn't.  So  I  walked 
around  in  the  boat  tending  to  my  work  with  that  head 
clinging  to  my  pants.  'Twa'n't  comfortable,  and  finally, 
in  order  to  get  free,  I  cut  off  the  piece  of  cloth  that  was 
in  the  shark's  mouth." 

"I  think  it  would  be  more  interesting  if  you'd  tell 
about  the  big  school  of  blackfish  that  was  caught  here," 
Mrs.  Fisherman  suggested. 

"What  sort  of  fish  are  those?"  I  inquired. 

"They're  something  like  small  whales,"  the  fisherman 
responded,  "and  I've  seen  'em  that'd  weigh  a  ton. 
They're  no  good  to  eat,  but  we  cut  off  the  fat  and  boil 
it  in  great  big  kittles  by  the  shore  for  the  oil.  We  used 
to  get  'em  every  year,  but  now  only  once  in  a  long  time. 
The  biggest  capture  we  ever  made  numbered  fourteen 
hundred  and  five.  They  go  just  like  a  flock  of  sheep, 
and  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  get  behind  'em  with  your 


196        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

boats  and  drive  'em  up  on  shore  and  lance  'em.  When 
it  was  known  that  this  school  of  blackfish  was  in  the 
bay  every  boat  in  town  went  out  to  drive  'em.  The 
minister  was  there  with  the  rest  of  us,  and  he  give  a 
little  girl  a  Bible  afterward  for  tellin'  him  about  the 
blackfish  in  time  so  he  could  go.  We  all  hollered  and 
pounded  the  sides  of  the  boats  and  made  as  much  noise 
as  we  could.  Everybody  but  the  minister  was  swearing 
and  ripping  out  the  toughest  words  they  knew.  You'd 
thought  they'd  been  ashamed  to  use  such  language 
before  him,  but  he  was  so  excited  he  didn't  notice  it. 
Besides,  he  was  making  such  a  racket  himself  that  he 
had  no  chance  to  hear  the  rest.  Well,  he  had  a  good 
strong  voice  and  was  a  great  hollerer  anyway.  He  was 
shouting:  'Praise  the  Lord!  Bless  the  Lord  for  so 
great  a  gift  to  this  little  place.' 

"In  two  hours  the  fish  was  all  run  up  on  the  shore 
and  killed,  and  when  the  time  come  to  divide  profits 
there  was  fifty  dollars  for  every  man  who  had  a  hand 
in  the  job,  and  that  was  most  all  the  men  in  town." 

After  a  pause  the  fisherman  mentioned  that  he  used 
to  go  "wracking."  One  wreck  he  worked  on  was  the 
Jason  laden  with  brown  sugar.  The  cargo  was  still  in 
good  condition,  and  the  wreckers  were  paid  five  dollars 
a  day  for  their  labor  in  getting  it  out.  "When  I  begun 
on  the  job,"  the  fisherman  said,  "I  took  my  dinner  in  a 
three  pint  pail;  but  I  noticed  that  every  one  else  carried 
a  great  big  bucket,  and  that  bucket  didn't  go  home 
empty  either.  So  the  second  day  I  carried  my  dinner 


Autumn  on  Cape  Cod  197 

in  a  pail  that  would  hold  twenty  quarts,  and  as  I  was 
goin'  on  board  the  boss  said,  'What  you  got  in  that 
pail,  Charlie?' 

"  'My  dinner,'  I  says. 

'"Your  appetite  increases,'  he  says — 'what  for — 
sugar?' 

"'Yes,' says  I. 

'"Well,  it's  all  right,'  says  he,  'only  don't  bring  a 
barrel  tomorrow.' 

"Every  night  I  carried  home  a  pailful,  and  by  the 
time  the  work  was  done  I  had  half  a  hogshead  of  that 
sugar." 

A  neighbor  happened  in  just  as  this  story  came  to  an 
end.  He  was  an  elderly  man,  and  after  he  had  sat  and 
talked  for  a  while  he  fell  asleep.  The  fisherman  like- 
wise napped  off,  and  a  stentorian  snoring  sounded  from 
the  adjoining  sitting-room  whither  Mrs.  Fisherman  had 
gone  and  settled  down  in  a  rocking-chair. 

It  was  not  late,  but  I  thought  the  indications  were 
that  bedtime  had  arrived,  and  I  retired.  During  the 
night  the  wind  rose,  and  I  learned  at  the  breakfast 
table  that  because  it  was  a  landward  breeze  the  fisher- 
man had  got  up  at  four  o'clock  to  go  to  the  shore  and 
pick  up  the  driftwood  it  brought  in. 

My  journey  on  the  Cape  ended  at  Provincetown  where 
the  tip  of  the  peninsula  hooks  around  like  the  clutch  of 
a  hand.  The  town  snugs  along  the  inner  shore  in  a 
thin  line  of  marvellously  narrow  and  crooked  streets; 
and  behind  it  are  sandhills  and  marshes  and  stunted 


198        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

forest,  and  then  a  waste  of  dunes  that  rise  in  vast  barren 
billows  and  sweep  away  in  sublime  dreariness  to  the 
Atlantic.  Neither  here  nor  anywhere  else  did  the  Cape 
impress  me  as  being  strikingly  beautiful,  but  it  has  an 
interesting  individuality,  and  certainly  its  inhabitants 
are  most  picturesquely  original. 

NOTES. — The  main  road  the  entire  length  of  the  Cape  is  state 
macadam.  Quaint  old  Provincetown  has  the  most  attractions  in 
and  around  it  of  any  of  the  Cape  towns,  but  interest  is  not  lacking 
wherever  one  wanders.  While  in  this  corner  of  the  state  the  traveller 
should  visit  Plymouth.  The  Mayflower  cast  anchor  off  shore  here 
December  2ist,  1620,  and  you  can  see  the  identical  rock  on  which 
the  Pilgrims  set  foot  when  the  first  boat  load  of  them  came  to  land. 
The  town  has  a  notable  historical  museum,  and  many  ancient 
houses,  and  every  sojourner  will  wish  to  see  the  quaint  old  cemetery 
on  Burial  Hill. 


XI 


NANTUCKET    DAYS 

NANTUCKET   has   the   reputation  of  being  an 
island  of   enchantment — not   that    it   has    any 
special   scenic   charm,  but  it   is  a  fragment  of 
New    England    comparatively    little    affected    by    the 
changing  customs  and  fashions  of  the  mainland,  and 
with  a  quaintness  and  flavor  of  the  past  in  its  life  and 
homes  that  are  all  its  own.     For  the  most  part  it  is  a 
windswept  moor  diversified  with  lagoons  and  ponds. 
Nowhere  does  it  rise  to  any  striking  height,  and  the 
trees,  except  in  the  villages,  are  few  and  stunted. 

The  first  settlers  established  themselves  on  the  island 
in  1661.  Thirty  years  later  they  began  to  send  out 
vessels  after  whales,  and  for  a  long  time  Nantucket 
led  the  world  in  this  industry.  Its  whaleships  in  their 
cruises  visited  all  the  waters  of  the  globe.  They  wan- 
dered far  from  the  lanes  of  commerce,  and  their  captains 
discovered  no  less  than  thirty  of  the  islands  of  the 
Pacific.  One  Nantucket  whaleship  was  lost  on  the  coast 
of  the  Fiji  Islands,  and  all  the  crew,  with  a  single  excep- 
tion, were  murdered  and  probably  eaten.  At  one  time 
Nantucket  had  nearly  fourscore  whaling  vessels,  and 
voyages  after  oil  continued  to  absorb  most  of  its  energy 
until  a  cheaper  lighting  fluid  was  found  in  petroleum. 


2OO        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

Ten  years  later,  in  1868,  the  last  outward-bound  whaler 
crossed  its  bar. 

When  the  steamer  on  which  one  journeys  to  the 
island  from  the  mainland  has  touched  at  Martha's 
Vineyard  and  has  again  turned  its  prow  seaward  you 
can  see  nothing  ahead  but  the  broad  blue  level  of  the 
ocean,  and  some  time  passes  before  Nantucket's  low 
mass  lifts  above  the  horizon.  As  soon  as  you  arrive  in 
port  you  observe  among  the  medley  of  buildings  on 
the  wharves  many  ancient  fish-houses,  and  there  see 
little  fishing  vessels  and  power  boats,  dories,  and 
pleasure  craft  on  the  waters  all  around.  Other  boats 
large  and  small  are  hauled  out  on  the  shore,  laid  up  or 
being  repaired.  The  town  huddles  about  the  wharves 
on  land  that  terraces  steeply  upward,  and  as  you  look 
toward  it  from  the  harbor  you  see  its  numerous  roofs 
and  chimneys  amid  the  green  foliage  of  the  trees,  and 
the  dominating  tower  of  the  old  Unitarian  Church  with 
its  gilt-domed  cupola. 

A  little  stretch  of  Main  Street  in  the  heart  of  the 
town  is  bordered  by  small  stores  and  other  commercial 
or  public  buildings.  It  is  arched  with  elms,  and  on  the 
outer  edge  of  the  sidewalks  are  occasional  settees.  Here 
was  serenity  and  protection  from  boisterous  winds  and 
burning  sunshine,  and  people  seemed  very  ready  to 
take  full  advantage  of  the  inducements  offered  for 
loitering.  The  paving  is  of  cobblestones,  and  a  number 
of  the  other  streets  and  lanes  are  similarly  paved,  while 
on  the  outskirts  there  are  rutted  roads  in  the  natural 


Nantucket  Days  201 

sandy  earth.  Nearly  all  the  streets  are  both  narrow 
and  crooked,  and  some  of  the  byways  and  footpath 
alleys  are  quite  surprising  in  their  picturesque  un- 
certainty. 

The  houses  are  mostly  wooden  with  sides  and  roofs 
of  shingles,  and  many  of  them,  built  by  the  old  sea 
captains,  are  of  generous  size,  two  or  three  stories  high. 
Paint  is  used  sparingly,  and  when  you  view  the  place 
from  the  hills  in  the  rear  it  appears  strangely  gray. 
Yet  the  houses  are  well-cared-for,  and  it  is  evident  that 
the  people  are  prosperous  and  live  in  comfort.  Possibly 
this  is  because  their  isolation  offers  comparatively  few 
opportunities  for  spending.  Fashion  and  society  are 
not  so  urgently  enticing  as  on  the  mainland,  and  wealth 
does  not  set  a  pace  which  those  with  more  circum- 
scribed incomes  feel  impelled  to  imitate.  The  majority 
of  the  houses  are  evidently  old  and  they  have  small- 
paned  windows  and  the  great  chimneys  of  fireplace 
days.  They  are  set  close  along  the  streets,  and  have  a 
habit  of  thrusting  a  porch  out  on  the  sidewalk  to  which 
steps  lead  down  from  the  front  door  in  either  direction. 
The  town  is  very  compact,  yet  there  is  space  about  its 
homes  for  bits  of  lawn,  hedges,  vegetable  gardens,  and 
an  abundance  of  gay  flowers. 

The  present  population  of  the  island  is  less  than  three 
thousand.  It  had  ten  thousand  in  the  heyday  of  its 
prosperity.  When  whaling  was  abandoned  a  large  por- 
tion of  the  younger  inhabitants  migrated  to  other  locali- 
ties and  real  estate  depreciated  so  that  houses  were 


2O2        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

frequently  sold  for  from  one  to  two  hundred  dollars. 
At  length,  however,  the  island  began  to  develop  as  a 
summer  resort,  and  its  prosperity  was  to  some  degree 
restored.  "But  it's  not  what  it  used  be,"  one  of  the 
elders  affirmed  to  me.  "The  people  have  backslid  from 
the  old  habits  of  thrifty  industry.  Lots  of  'em  will  do 
anything  to  get  shet  of  hard  work.  In  summer  they 
fetch  out  their  teams  and  set  all  day  on  their  behinds 
in  front  of  the  post  office  looking  for  a  chance  to  drive 
some  one  around.  One  day  a  man  may  make  twenty- 
five  cents,  and  another  day  two  or  three  dollars,  and  the 
next  day  he  may  not  take  in  a  blame  cent.  In  winter 
they  live  off  each  other,  and  in  their  spare  time  gather 
at  their  loafing  places  to  spin  yarns." 

I  had  the  good  fortune  to  lodge  in  one  of  the  fine  old 
mansions.  It  has  much  panelled  woodwork  inside  and 
large  low-ceiled  rooms  with  the  heavy  timbers  of  the 
framework  showing  here  and  there.  On  the  first  even- 
ing of  my  sojourn  I  found  my  landlord  and  his  wife  at 
liberty  and  I  inquired  about  the  use  of  a  platform  with 
a  railing  round  it  which  was  perched  on  the  peak  of  a 
neighboring  roof. 

"That's  what  we  call  a  lookout  or  walk,"  the  land- 
lord said.  "Nearly  all  the  old-fashioned  houses  had 
'em  when  I  was  a  boy  fifty  years  ago.  Our  harbor  here 
was  a  busy  place,  and  people  would  often  slip  up  to 
their  lookout  with  a  spyglass  to  see  what  was  going  on 
down  on  the  water.  They  might  go  up  there  for  other 
reasons,  too.  Suppose  a  man  had  a  row  with  his  wife — 


A  Nantucket  harbor  nook 


Nantucket  Days  203 

one  of  'em  would  very  likely  go  to  the  roof  platform  to 
get  a  little  solitude. 

"We  had  a  town  crier  here  by  the  name  of  Billy 
Clark  from  way  back  to  the  time  of  the  Civil  War  until 
he  died  a  few  years  ago.  He  was  drafted  as  a  young 
feller  to  go  as  a  soldier,  and  for  a  while  he  was  a  fright- 
ened boy,  but  he  was  a  little  soft  you  know,  and  the 
officials  saw  he  wasn't  fit  for  the  army.  They  gave  him 
a  furlough  for  ninety-nine  years  and  twelve  months. 
Lawyer  Macy  was  his  guardian.  During  the  war  Billy 
sold  Boston  Heralds.  He  was  honest  as  the  day  was 
long  and  he  was  so  anxious  to  pay  for  his  papers  that 
he  kept  sending  on  money  to  the  publishers  as  fast  as 
he  got  it.  By  and  by  they  wrote  to  him  that  he  had 
overpaid  'em.  That  didn't  do  no  good,  and  they  wrote 
to  his  guardian,  who  spoke  to  him,  and  said,  'Billy, 
don't  send  no  more  money.' 

"  'Mr.  Macy,'  Billy  said,  'I  wish  you'd  mind  your 
own  business.  I'll  send  all  the  money  I  want  to.' 

"He  used  to  go  through  the  streets  crying  out  what- 
ever any  one  wanted  to  advertise.  He  had  a  good  voice 
for  that  originally,  but  in  his  later  years  his  voice  all 
broke  up  so  we  couldn't  hardly  understand  him.  Every 
time  his  birthday  came  around  somebody  in  town  would 
make  him  a  birthday  cake.  Oh,  we  certainly  miss  Billy. 
In  the  whaling  days  he  spent  a  lot  of  time  in  the  tower 
of  the  old  church  watching  for  returning  vessels.  He  had 
good  eyes.  Yes,  Iswanny!  Billy  could  see  farther  than 
you  and  I  put  together.  When  he  sighted  a  whaler 


204        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

comin'  and  made  out  what  ship  she  was  he'd  blow  a 
horn  and  come  down  and  go  to  carry  the  news  to  the 
captain's  house.  He'd  tell  Nancy,  the  captain's  wife — 
Nancy  was  a  great  name  for  women  here — and  she'd 
give  him  fifty  cents  or  so.  Then  she'd  go  up  through 
the  scuttle  in  the  roof  to  the  lookout  with  her  spy- 
glass." 

"But  she  wouldn't  stay  long,"  the  landlady  declared. 
"She'd  soon  come  down  and  set  to  work  to  bake  ginger- 
bread so  as  to  have  some  nice  and  fresh  for  the  boys  on 
the  ship  and  give  'em  a  treat.  As  soon  as  the  vessel 
come  in  over  the  bar  with  her  load  of  oil  and — 

"Delia,  keep  quiet  a  minute,  will  you,"  the  landlord 
interrupted.  "You  and  I  can't  talk  to  this  gentleman 
at  the  same  time,  and  I  want  to  explain  something.  I 
want  to  tell  about  this  whaling  business.  The  ships 
used  to  be  built  and  fitted  out  here  for  voyages  that 
were  expected  to  last  'bout  four  years.  The  wives  who 
were  left  behind  led  a  lonely  life,  and  you  can  imagine 
they  weren't  very  cheerful  when  their  husbands'  vessels 
left  the  harbor. 

"I  remember,  one  night  when  I  was  nine  years  old, 
my  mother  came  in  the  room  where  my  brother  and  I 
were  asleep  and  woke  us  up  and  told  us  she'd  just  got 
word  from  the  owners  of  my  father's  vessel  that  the 
ship  was  lost  and  he  was  dead.  I  never  saw  him  long 
enough  hardly  to  know  him.  Often  he  wouldn't  be  at 
home  more'n  two  months  between  voyages.  The  ship 
would  start  as  soon  as  it  could  unload  and  get  fitted 


Nantucket  Days  205 

out.  If  a  captain  had  good  luck  he'd  retire  by  the  time 
he  was  fifty  worth  fifteen  or  twenty  thousand  dollars. 
That  was  considered  wealth  in  the  old  days.  Of  course, 
some  voyages  weren't  profitable.  There  was  one  cap- 
tain come  home  with  only  five  hundred  barrels  of  oil 
after  being  gone  fifty-two  months.  The  owners  lost 
forty  thousand  dollars  on  the  voyage,  and  they  sold 
the  ship.  She  was  a  nice  little  bark,  and  the  captain 
bought  a  quarter  interest  in  her  and  started  out  again. 
He  came  back  in  thirty-four  months  just  as  the  Civil 
War  ended  with  over  three  thousand  barrels  of  oil, 
and  he  got  two  dollars  and  twenty  cents  a  gallon.  His 
share  of  the  profits  was  sixty-five  thousand  dollars." 

"Do  you  hear  that  bell  ringing?"  the  landlady  asked. 
"That's  the  curfew.  It's  a  warning  for  everybody  to 
get  off  the  streets  and  that  all  lights  should  be  put  out 
and  the  people  go  to  bed;  but  no  one  pays  any  atten- 
tion to  it.  We  have  a  rising  bell,  too.  That  rings  at 
seven  in  the  morning,  and  there's  a  twelve  o'clock  bell 
at  noon." 

"Two  watchmen  used  to  go  on  duty  at  the  old  church 
after  the  curfew  rang,"  the  landlord  said.  "It  was  a 
cold  place  up  in  the  tower  in  winter,  but  they  were 
rigged  up  with  heavy  boots  and  thick  clothes,  and  only 
one  man  was  in  the  tower  at  a  time  while  the  other  was 
in  a  room  below  where  there  was  a  stove.  They  changed 
every  hour.  We  thought  a  good  deal  of  that  tower 
watch.  It  served  more  for  a  fire  alarm  than  anything 
else.  If  the  watchmen  saw  a  fire  they'd  go  through  the 


206        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

streets,  by  gorry!  blowing  horns  and  hollering  to  beat 
the  band." 

The  landlady  had  risen  and  taken  a  sprig  of  English 
ivy  from  a  vase  on  the  table.  She  handed  it  to  me  with 
the  remark:  "Quite  a  little  of  that  grows  in  our  garden. 
It's  descended  from  some  that  a  neighbor  on  a  whaling 
voyage  brought  from  the  tomb  of  Napoleon  on  St. 
Helena.  We  have  a  great  many  pretty  flowers  in  our 
town  gardens,  and  out  on  the  moors  are  all  kinds  of 
wildflowers  that  you  can  think  of.  Lots  of  Scotch 
heather  used  to  grow  on  the  moorland,  but  people  would 
go  to  get  it  and  pull  it  up  roots  and  all.  Very  little  is 
left  now.  Only  two  or  three  persons  know  where  that 
little  is,  and  they  won't  tell." 

"My  friend,"  the  landlord  said,  "listen  to  me  if  you 
please  for  a  moment.  Flowers  are  all  very  well,  but, 
by  gracious!  the  moors  are  good  for  something  else. 
Huckleberries,  blackberries,  and  blueberries  grow  on 
'em.  Us  old-time  Nantucketers  would  let  them  berries 
rot  on  the  vines,  but  we've  got  a  colony  of  Cape  de  Verde 
negroes  here,  and  they  go  out  in  whole  families  after  the 
berries  and  bring  'em  to  the  town  to  sell.  The  children 
pick  the  same  as  the  grown-ups.  Why,  heavens  and 
earth!  those  kids  are  'bout  ten  years  old  when  they  are 
born,  and  all  ready  to  go  right  to  work.  The  negroes  are 
poor  and  live  in  little  shacks  of  homes  often,  but  they 
dress  better'n  the  whites  do.  They  spend  everything 
they  earn  on  clothes,  and  you'll  see  'em  wearin'  patent 
leather  shoes  and  pink  stockings  and  yellow  trousers. 


Nantucket  Days  207 

"The  island  is  very  quiet  at  present.  We  don't  get 
many  summer  people  here  until  after  the  Fourth  of 
July.  You  take  these  vacation  visitors  lookin'  for  a 
lodging-place — they  don't  want  this  and  they  don't 
want  that.  We  have  to  deal  with  a  good  many  blame 
cheap  people,  and  it's  something  fierce  the  way  they 
talk  to  you.  Yes,  sir,  you  put  that  in  your  pipe  and 
smoke  it.  They  come  into  our  house  and  tell  us  how 
much  they  admire  old-fashioned  homes  and  furnishings, 
and  they  look  at  one  thing  and  another  and  exclaim, 
'Oh,  isn't  this  elegant! — lovely,  lovely!'  Lastly  they 
say,  'Now  let's  see  what  kind  of  beds  you've  got;'  and 
they'll  punch  their  fists  into  'em  to  see  whether  they've 
got  the  latest  springs.  If  you  was  to  show  'em  a  corded 
bed  they'd  drop  dead.  A  person  who's  got  health  and 
works  hard  enough  to  be  dog-tired  can  sleep  on  the 
floor,  or  out  in  the  woods  with  his  back  against  a  tree, 
and  sleep  well,  but  the  people  who  summer  on  this 
island  must  have  spring  beds,  and  they  expect  board  at 
the  same  price  as  twenty  years  ago.  Our  own  Massa- 
chusetts people  put  up  the  worst  kick  of  any  on  God's 
earth.  They  are  kickers  from  way  back.  They  want 
everything  old,  and  they  also  want  all  the  modern 
improvements,  and  I  don't  know  how  in  time  you're 
goin'  to  manage  that. 

"Delia,  where's  the  almanac?  I  want  to  see  how 
the  tide  is.  Say,  look  here,  my  friend,  I'm  going  over 
in  my  dory  tomorrow  to  a  shack  I've  got  on  the  other 
side  of  the  harbor.  Why  don't  you  come  along  with 


208        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

me?  That's  a  good  place  to  go  in  swimming.  You 
can't  drown  there.  The  water's  too  darn  shoal.  At 
some  of  the  bathing  places  there's  bold  water  where 
you're  likely  to  get  out  over  your  head  before  you  know 
it,  and  there's  such  a  surf  it's  dangerous  for  swimmers 
who  are  not  expert.  One  mistake  people  make  is  stay- 
ing in  too  long.  Some  will  be  in  that  chilly  water  for 
half  a  day.  You  got  to  use  a  little  horse  sense  'bout 
that  as  well  as  other  things. 

"There  are  no  automobiles  on  the  island.  The  public 
is  against  'em.  One  man  got  one,  but  we  wouldn't  stand 
for  it,  and  he  had  to  get  rid  of  it.  I'm  goin'  to  tell  you 
just  how  we  feel  in  this  town.  A  great  many  of  us  have 
money  invested  in  horses  and  carriages  and  do  quite  a 
business  in  hauling  goods  and  going  around  with  pleas- 
ure parties.  The  whole  shooting  match  of  such  fellers 
is  against  anything  that  will  interfere  with  their  profits. 
Besides,  our  streets  are  very  narrow.  A  man  with  an 
auto  wants  to  go  like  time,  and  there'd  surely  be  acci- 
dents. We'll  have  flying-machines  here  before  we  have 
automobiles." 

On  the  borders  of  the  harbor  was  a  row  of  fishermen's 
huts  set  on  posts  to  safeguard  them  from  the  encroach- 
ing of  the  high  tides,  and  there  I  one  day  stopped  to 
chat  with  a  man  who  greeted  me  from  a  hut  door.  I 
looked  in  and  saw  that  the  walls  and  ceiling  were 
plentifully  adorned  with  fishing  implements.  A  ham- 
mock made  out  of  an  old  net  extended  the  full  length  of 
the  room.  Outside  were  shells  and  fish-heads,  strewings 


Nantucket  Days  209 

of  seaweed,  pieces  of  wrecks,  boats  battered  and  aban- 
doned, and  others  new  and  trim  on  the  oozy  flats  that  a 
receding  tide  had  left  bare. 

"It's  the  fishing  industry  more  than  anything  else 
that  supports  Nantucket,"  the  man  said.  "Just  now 
quahauging  is  the  great  thing.  The  whole  bottom  in 
the  harbor  and  for  miles  and  miles  outside  is  covered 
with  quahaugs.  In  the  spring  I  go  over  to  the  ditch 
that  connects  Long  Pond  with  the  ocean  and  ketch 
herring  on  their  way  up  to  the  pond  to  spawn.  Evening 
is  the  time  for  'em,  especially  on  stormy  nights.  The 
more  storms  the  better.  They  stop  after  a  few  hours, 
and  long  'bout  'leven  o'clock  the  eels  start  to  run  out. 
We  spear  a  good  many  eels  in  the  holes  on  the  ma'sh 
and  in  the  cricks  that  make  up  around  there.  Some- 
times we  ketch  'em  almost  as  fast  as  we  can  jog.  We 
fellers  around  here  call  it  joggin'.  They're  all  sizes 
from  a  shoestring  up.  The  biggest  one  I  ever  got 
weighed  nine  pounds.  I've  seen  twenty-five  men  out 
here  on  the  harbor  eeling  in  winter.  We  jog  for  the 
eels  through  holes  cut  in  the  ice.  There's  more  or 
less  fishing,  clamming,  and  one  thing  or  another  all 
winter. 

"Once  in  a  while  the  harbor  is  frozen  so  you  can  go  any- 
where on  it,  but  the  tide  runs  very  strong  here,  and  when 
it  makes  out  it  generally  clears  some  places  so  the 
steamer  that  makes  trips  between  Nantucket  and  the 
mainland  can  work  her  way  in  and  out.  There  are 
times  though  when  the  field  ice  blows  into  the  harbor 


2io        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

and  the  steamer  may  have  to  quit  running  for  several 
days.  I  guess  the  longest  time  was  three  weeks.  Then 
supplies  of  kerosene  and  butter  and  some  other  things 
may  run  short,  but  people  know  they  are  liable  to  be 
cut  off,  and  they  lay  in  a  stock  of  what  they  need.  It 
ain't  so  awful  cold  here.  The  ocean  warms  the  air, 
and  it's  very  seldom  that  the  thermometer  gets  below 
zero." 

In  my  wanderings  about  the  town  I  went  up  Joy 
Street  and  was  interested  to  find  that  this  cheerfully 
named  thoroughfare  led  to  the  entrance  to  the  cemetery. 
Some  signs  apprised  me  that  it  also  led  to  the  Poet's 
Corner,  and  when  I  came  to  a  dooryard  with  its  picket 
fence  adorned  with  numerous  rhymed  placards  I 
stopped  to  investigate.  Similar  signs  were  tacked  to 
the  house  and  to  a  little  shop  that  had  half  a  dozen 
nautical  weathervanes  on  its  peak.  In  the  yard  was  a 
decripit  "one-hoss  shay"  and  other  antique  vehicles 
and  curiosities,  some  genuine  and  some  fake,  and  two 
rooms  in  the  house  served  as  a  sort  of  museum  and 
salesplace  for  souvenirs,  peanuts,  and  root  beer.  The 
signs  were  printed  with  a  rubber  type  outfit  and  in- 
cluded not  only  poetry  but  jokes,  sells,  and  conun- 
drums. They  were  such  as  these: 

Now,  my  friends,  listen  to  me, 
There's  no  use  now  in  talking 
This  is  the  place  for  you  to  see 
When  you  go  out  a  walking. 


A  cobble-paved  lane 


Nantucket  Days  211 

B   GOOD    LIKE    I 
AND  NEVER  LIE 

Receipt  for  Coot  Stew 

Skin  the  coot,  throw  away  all  but  the  skin,  nail  skin 
to  a  board,  let  stay  nailed  48  hours,  then  eat  the  board. 

God  made  the  world  and  rested, 
God  made  man  and  rested, 
Then  God  made  woman, 
And  since  then  neither 
God  nor  man  has  rested. 

What  is  it? 

Luke  had  it  before, 

Paul  had  it  behind, 

All  girls  have  it  once, 

Boys  cannot  have  it, 

Old  Mrs.  Mulligan  had  it  twice  in  succession, 

Dr.  Lowell  had  it  before  and  after  and  had 

it  twice  as  bad  behind  as  before. 

Answer:  the  letter  L. 

The  poet  had  died  not  long  previous  after  living  all 
alone  in  the  house  for  nineteen  years.  A  picture  of  him 
on  a  souvenir  postcard  showed  a  burly  man  with  side- 
whiskers,  an  enormous  broadbrimmed  hat,  and  a  sign 
hung  on  his  vest  informing  you  that  "This  is  me."  He 
looked  like  a  pirate. 


212        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

From  a  pamphlet  autobiography  written  the  year  he 
died  I  learned  that  he  was  born  at  Nantucket  in  1833 
and  left  school  when  he  was  fourteen.  During  the  next 
forty-four  years,  most  of  which  time  he  was  off  the 
island,  he  changed  his  employment  fifty-one  times. 
Among  other  things  he  worked  on  farms,  tried  black- 
smithing,  was  a  night  policeman  in  Providence,  drove 
a  New  York  City  omnibus  on  Broadway,  had  a  washing- 
fluid  store  in  Boston,  was  a  clerk  in  a  lawyer's  office, 
and  peddled  through  the  rustic  regions  with  a  tin-cart. 
In  most  of  the  larger  places  where  he  sojourned,  he 
joined  the  fire  department.  He  had  the  dropsy,  the 
smallpox,  and  yellow  fever.  His  experiences  included 
service  in  the  army  through  most  of  the  Civil  War,  and 
twice  he  was  captured  by  the  "Rebs"  while  doing  duty 
as  a  spy.  When  he  at  last  returned  to  Nantucket  to 
make  it  his  permanent  home  he  set  about  earning  a 
living  by  going  around  from  house  to  house  with  a 
basket  selling  peanuts  at  five  cents  a  bag.  He  prospered 
and  presently  "opened  up  Poet's  Corner  for  the  enter- 
tainment of  summer  visitors."  His  poetic  efforts  seem 
to  have  been  limited  to  manufacturing  supposedly 
humorous  jingles  of  a  few  lines  each.  In  one  of  the 
final  sentences  of  his  reminiscences  he  says,  "I  am  now 
seventy-eight  years  old,  and  I  have  never  drank  a  drop 
of  tea  or  coffee,  and  I  have  never  uttered  an  oath." 

Not  far  from  the  home  of  the  poet,  on  one  of  the 
sandhills  back  of  the  town  whence  you  can  overlook 
the  moors  sweeping  away  across  the  island  with  their 


Nantucket  Days  213 

lowly  shrubs  and  coarse  grasses  and  stunted  trees,  is  an 
old  windmill.  It  was  built  in  1746  and  was  used  till 
1892.  Now  it  is  taken  care  of  as  a  relic  of  the  past,  and 
a  keeper  is  there  in  summer  to  tell  its  story  and  explain 
to  visitors  its  rude  mechanism.  I  had  been  informed 
that  visitors  as  they  gazed  at  its  weather-beaten 
shingled  sides  were  apt  to  utter  some  such  exclamation 
as:  "Why,  those  shingle  must  have  been  on  there  over 
a  hundred  years!  I'd  give  a  dollar  if  I  could  carry  away 
one  of  'em  as  a  souvenir." 

"Well,"  the  keeper  would  say,  "I  guess  you  can  have 
one  if  you  want  to  pay  a  dollar  for  it." 

So  the  visitor  would  go  off  with  the  shingle,  but  it 
probably  hadn't  been  on  for  six  months.  The  keeper 
had  got  some  shingles  from  an  old  house  that  was  being 
torn  down  and  used  them  to  replace  those  he  sold. 

When  I  called  at  the  mill  I  found  the  caretaker  seated 
just  inside  of  the  door  smoking  his  pipe.  He  was  a 
stoutish  vigorous  man,  who  though  no  longer  young 
had  a  face  which  retained  something  of  its  youthful 
smoothness  and  hair  that  had  not  yet  lost  its  original 
color.  He  wanted  me  to  guess  his  age,  and  when  I 
suggested  sixty-five  he  responded:  "Well,  sir,  I'm 
eighty,  and  I  feel  now  as  if  I'd  live  to  be  one  hundred 
and  eighty.  The  other  day  a  man  and  his  wife  was 
here  to  see  the  mill.  She  was  quite  a  talker,  and  she 
remarked  that  she  hoped  I'd  live  to  be  as  old  as  her 
husband.  He  was  grayer'n  a  rat,  and  I  said,  'By  the 
way,  how  old  is  he?' 


214        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

"  'He's  sixty,'  she  answered. 

"People  wouldn't  die  so  young  if  they  lived  mo' 
plainer  and  didn't  eat  such  rich  food.  They  didn't 
have  all  these  fancy  foods  and  drinks  in  the  olden-time. 
We  got  one  grave  down  here  in  the  cemetery  of  a  woman 
who  was  one  hundred  and  twelve  years  of  age.  Cap'n 
Grant  who  kept  the  mill  before  me  was  ninety-three 
when  he  died,  and  he  was  just  as  straight  as  any  timber 
in  the  mill.  But  Nantucket's  about  as  healthy  a  place 
as  there  is  in  the  Union  anyway.  We  can't  help  getting 
pure  air,  for  we're  twenty-four  miles  from  the  nearest 
mainland.  It's  like  being  on  a  ship  anchored  in  the 
ocean. 

"I've  seen  people  come  here  just  like  a  rail — just 
like  a  clothespin — and  go  away  fat  as  pigs.  I  know 
one  woman  who  couldn't  eat  or  sleep  at  home  and 
her  doctor  decided  she  had  consumption.  'The  only 
thing  I  can  do,'  he  said,  'is  to  recommend  you  to  go  to 
some  seaport  place  in  the  hope  that  it  will  prolong  your 
life  for  a  few  months.' 

"So  she  came  to  Nantucket.  At  that  time  she 
weighed  ninety  pounds,  but  she  began  to  brace  up  and 
to  eat  and  sleep  and  at  the  end  of  the  season  she 
weighed  one  hundred  and  twenty-three.  Since  then 
she's  been  here  every  summer.  She  calls  Nantucket 
her  second  birthplace.  Consumption  wasn't  what  was 
the  matter  with  her.  It  was  general  debility. 

"I'll  give  you  another  instance.  An  old  lady  relation 
of  mine  come  to  Nantucket  visiting.  She  weighed  one 


Nantucket  Days  215 

hundred  and  eighty-four  pounds,  but  after  she'd  been 
here  three  weeks  her  weight  had  gone  up  to  over  two 
hundred,  and  she  said,  'Let  me  get  off  this  island 
devilish  quick!' 

"There  used  to  be  more  children  in  the  homes  here 
than  you  find  now.  They  numbered  fourteen  in  our 
family,  and  they  all  lived  to  grow  up  and  marry.  Look 
here,  I've  seen  twenty-four  of  us,  husband  and  wives, 
set  down  at  once  in  our  house  with  Father  and  Mother. 

"This  old  mill  is  about  as  good  as  it  ever  was,  except 
that  the  long  beam  which  slants  down  from  the  cap  to 
the  ground,  and  which  was  for  shifting  the  sails  to  face 
the  wind,  is  now  rotten  and  has  to  stay  exactly  where  it 
is.  One  morning  last  summer,  as  I  was  comin'  up  here 
I  saw  that  the  wind  was  just  in  the  right  corner  to  set 
the  machinery  going,  and  it  was  getting  stronger. 
'Good  Lord,  let  her  breeze!'  I  said. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  I  done.  I  got  a  bushel  of 
shelled  corn  and  brought  it  to  the  mill.  Then  I  put  the 
sails  on  two  of  the  arms.  If  I'd  put  'em  on  all  four  the 
arms  would  have  run  away  from  me.  I  ground  the 
corn  in  no  time  and  afterward  separated  the  wheels 
and  let  the  sails  keep  whirling.  The  townspeople  saw 
the  vanes  going  and  they  said  it  looked  like  old  times. 
That  was  a  great  day  for  the  mill — you  bet  it  was! 
There  was  crowds  of  visitors  here  all  the  time. 

"When  I  was  a  boy  my  folks  bought  corn  of  the 
farmers  and  I  lugged  up  to  the  mill  many  a  bag  on  my 
back.  Mother  made  corn  cakes.  I  golly!  I've  eaten 


216        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

lots  of  'em,  and  they  tasted  good  too — oh,  fust  rate. 
Also  she  made  johnnycake  and  what  old-fashioned  peo- 
ple call  Injun  dumplings.  The  dumplings  was  pieces  of 
meal  dough  flattened  out  and  cooked  on  top  of  a  stew. 

"You  notice  the  mill  has  two  doors.  That's  because 
the  sails  are  sometimes  whirling  right  across  one  door 
so  it  can't  be  used.  The  tips  of  the  arms  come  almost 
down  to  the  ground.  If  one  was  to  hit  you  good  you'd 
never  know  what  hurt  you. 

"There  was  four  of  these  mills  up  here  back  of  the 
town  once.  Lots  mo'  land  was  cultivated  on  the  island 
then,  and  the  farmers  raised  plenty  of  corn  and  rye 
and  wheat  so  that  the  mills  had  all  they  could  do  in 
winter.  The  farmers  grew  big  crops  and  they  had 
thousands  of  sheep  grazing  on  the  moors.  But  the 
generation  now  is  too  darned  lazy  to  go  into  farming, 
and  the  farms  are  all  goin'  to  ruin.  There  ain't  enough 
raised  on  most  of  'em  to  feed  a  cat. 

"At  the  time  this  mill  was  built  Nantucket  was  a 
stronghold  of  the  Quakers.  They  had  their  meeting- 
houses and  schools,  and  in  1800  more  than  half  the 
inhabitants  were  of  that  faith.  Once  when  I  was  a  boy 
I  went  to  one  of  their  meetings.  Nobody  said  anything 
and  I  just  sat  there  and  twiddled  my  thumbs.  Human 
nature  couldn't  stand  the  severity  of  their  customs. 
They  had  no  use  for  art,  music  or  games,  or  for  books 
of  fiction,  and  when  the  society  began  to  disown 
members  for  breaking  its  rules  its  decline  was  rapid. 
None  of  the  Friends  are  left  here  now. 


Nantucket  Days  217 

"One  of  the  best  men  that  ever  lived  on  the  island 
was  Edward  W.  Perry.  He  owned  a  coalyard  down  on 
one  of  the  wharves  and  never  fenced  it  in.  Every 
winter  when  he  was  buyin'  coal  he  got  forty  ton  extra 
for  the  poor  to  lug  away.  Once  Cap'n  Reno  called  at 
Edward  W.  Perry's  office  and  told  him  he'd  seen  seven- 
teen men  comin'  from  his  coalyard,  each  with  a  full 
bag  over  his  shoulder.  He  thought  the  owner  would 
want  to  put  a  stop  to  such  wholesale  stealin',  but 
Edward  W.  Perry  said,  'Cap'n  Reno,  if  you  hadn't  gone 
to  the  post  office  after  your  mail  you  wouldn't  have  seen 
'em.' 

"He  was  rich.  He  didn't  care.  Why,  he'd  even 
have  some  coal  dumped  up  on  the  edge  of  the  town 
when  he  thought  the  weather  was  too  cold  for  the  boys 
to  come  down  on  the  wharf.  Well,  I  tell  you  that 
Edward  W.  Perry  was  a  man! 

"I  never  saw  any  coal  burned  when  I  was  young 
growin'  up.  We  used  wood  and  peat.  People  would  go 
out  in  the  swamps  and  dig  the  heavy  black  peat  mud, 
and  after  it  dried  many  and  many  a  load  was  hauled  to 
town  to  sell  to  the  old  rich  fellers.  It  took  plenty  of 
fuel  to  heat  our  houses  with  their  big  fireplaces.  Once 
the  island  was  covered  with  large  oaks,  and  roots  used 
to  be  often  found  in  the  peat  bogs  as  big  as  a  man's 
body. 

"In  the  summer  of  1846  when  I  was  twelve  years  old 
we  had  the  big  fire  that  burned  out  three  hundred  and 
sixty-three  buildings  in  this  town.  The  fire  was  dis- 


218        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

covered  at  five  minutes  to  eleven  oy  two  men  who  were 
comin'  down  Main  Street  from  courtin'.  They  smelt 
somethin'  like  cloth  burnin',  and  they  put  their  noses 
to  the  keyholes  of  the  stores  along  and  finally  come  to 
where  the  fire  was  in  a  hat  and  cap  store.  There'd 
been  no  rain  for  three  weeks,  and  the  town  buildings 
was  like  powder.  It  took  all  the  wharves  and  walked 
up  Main  Street  and  made  a  big  hole  in  the  place.  I 
didn't  go  to  it  but  kept  runnin'  out  of  the  house  to  look 
and  then  runnin'  in.  Father  was  in  his  schooner  sword- 
fishing  thirty  miles  away,  but  he  saw  the  light  and  said: 
'That  fire  sprung  from  my  house,  I've  got  so  many 
children.  They  must  have  been  playing  with  matches 
or  somethin'.  He  started  for  home  right  off. 

"In  those  times  several  watchmen  were  on  duty  in 
the  town  every  night,  and  I  can  remember  waking  up 
and  hearing  one  of  'em  goin'  through  our  street  and 
calling  out,  'Twelve  o'clock  and  all  is  well.'  It  was  a 
part  of  their  job  to  keep  us  boys  quiet.  If  they  found 
us  stealin'  grapes  or  into  other  mischief  they'd  get  after 
us.  I've  had  'em  chase  me  more'n  once.  They  carried 
a  hook.  It  had  a  wooden  handle  three  feet  long,  and 
the  hook  was  just  right  to  ketch  us  round  the  neck  or 
to  slip  round  a  feller's  leg  and  trip  him  up.  We  called 
the  watchmen  hookers.  Often  we'd  holler  out  to  'em, 
'Hookaar!  hookaar!  ketch  us  if  you  can!' 

"If  we  did  get  caught  the  watchman  would  take  the 
wooden  end  of  his  hook,  slap  our  setdowns,  then  give 
us  a  kick  and  say,  'Get  out ! '  Ah,  those  good  old  times ! " 


Nantucket  Days  219 

The  chief  pleasure  resort  and  watering  place  of  the 
island  is  Sconset  on  the  exposed  Atlantic  shore.  You 
can  go  thither  from  the  old  harbor  town  by  a  queer 
little  narrow  gauge  railroad.  The  distance  is  eight  miles 
over  the  sober  rolling  moorland.  When  you  reach 
Sconset  you  find  great  billowing  sand  dunes,  and 
wooden  hotels  and  summer  cottages,  and  a  cluster  of 
humble  one-story  homes  of  islanders  that  are  mildly 
picturesque  in  their  irregular  architecture  and  embower- 
ing of  flowers  and  vines.  A  steep  sandy  beach  fronts 
the  gray  hazy  waste  of  the  sea  with  its  restless  waves, 
its  smoke-plumed  steamers,  and  white-winged  sailing 
vessels. 

I  visited  a  fish-house  on  the  edge  of  the  terrace  that 
the  village  occupied.  A  man  inside  was  cleaning  fish, 
and  another  man  was  poking  over  the  contents  of  a 
bucket  of  waste  and  extracting  some  heads  and  meaty 
skeletons.  When  the  latter  had  his  hands  full  he  came 
out  and  started  to  descend  a  steep  narrow  stairway 
that  led  down  the  bank  to  where,  on  a  lower  level  amid 
the  sand,  was  a  scattered  settlement  of  shacks  and 
small  cottages.  "I'm  a-comin',  God  bless  you,"  he 
called  out,  and  I  ventured  to  ask  him  who  he  was 
talking  to. 

"A  friend  of  mine  lives  in  that  yellow  house  down 
there,"  he  replied,  "and  I've  got  a  lot  of  baby  chickens 
under  his  piazza.  I'm  carryin'  'em  somethin'  to  eat 
and  it  was  them  that  I  was  speakin'  to." 

He   returned   after  a  while   and   paused   to  get  his 


22O       Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

breath  at  the  head  of  the  stairway.  "That's  a  good 
place  for  my  chickens  this  time  of  year,  eh?"  he  said. 
"In  winter  I  have  'em  with  me  at  my  home  in  Nan- 
tucket.  This  is  no  place  for  chickens  or  people  either 
in  our  winter  storms.  When  you  get  a  nor'wester  here 
then,  by  gol!  you  know  it,  and  there's  only  about  a 
dozen  families  stay  the  year  round.  How  the  dickens 
they  keep  from  freezing  I  don't  know.  You  see  that 
small  house  just  beyond  my  friend's.  A  poet  lives  in 
that.  I  don't  believe  he's  very  prosperous.  Two-thirds 
of  the  poets  starve  to  death  anyhow.  They  don't  need 
much  to  eat  either.  A  person  who  don't  do  nothin' 
don't  have  no  appetite  to  eat  nothin.' 

"Seems  to  me  I  hear  it  thunder  off  in  the  distance, 
and  I  see  the  sky  is  gettin'  overcast  and  the  wind  is 
blowin'  up  strong." 

He  had  hardly  made  this  remark  when  a  fleshy 
elderly  woman  appeared  on  the  scene.  She  was  his 
wife.  "There's  goin'  to  be  a  tempest,"  she  declared, 
and  she  insisted  that  he  should  come  home. 

"Holy  smoke!  what  for  should  I  go  home?"  he  said. 
"Do  you  want  to  sit  in  my  lap  and  have  me  rock  you? 
That  storm  ain't  comin'  here.  Lord,  no!  We  won't 
get  enough  rain  to  wet  my  shirt." 

But  he  went,  and  I  accompanied  him  to  his  little 
low-roomed  shell  of  a  house  near  by.  We  reached 
shelter  just  in  time  to  escape  a  spatter  of  rain. 

"They're  gettin'  a  good  storm  somewheres  away  from 
here,"  my  host  said.  "Like  enough  it's  a-pourin'  on 


Nantucket  Days  221 

the  other  side  of  the  island.  Here  comes  my  cat.  We 
have  to  treat  our  cats  pretty  well  or  they  go  off  and 
stay  in  the  swamps.  They  ketch  moles  and  birds  and 
little  rabbits,  and  they  raise  up  young  ones  there. 
Rabbits  are  very  plenty  in  the  swamps  and  scrub  oaks, 
and  they're  good  eating  in  winter.  They  find  plenty  of 
stuff  to  live  on  and  are  as  fat  as  butter  then. 

"I've  got  a  sore  thumb,  and  I'm  keepin'  it  tied  up 
at  present.  Yesterday  morning  at  three  o'clock  just 
as  day  was  breaking  I  started  out  bluefishing  in  my 
dory.  Well,  sir,  I  got  one  more  fish  than  I  wanted.  I 
had  him  in  my  hands  when  a  big  sturgeon  jumped  out 
of  the  water  close  by  the  boat.  The  sturgeons  get  as 
lousy  as  a  cuckoo,  and  they  come  up  that  way  to  shake 
themselves.  This  one  fell  back  with  a  splash  that  sent 
the  water  flying  all  around  and  pretty  near  drowned  me. 
At  the  same  time  the  bluefish  bit  my  thumb.  There 
ain't  a  man  in  the  world  can  sharpen  a  saw  as  sharp  as 
the  teeth  of  a  bluefish.  Each  tooth  is  just  like  a  lance, 
and  my  thumb  was  bitten  clear  to  the  bone.  I've  seen  a 
feller  lose  half  his  heel  that  way.  I  caught  six  after  I 
got  bit,  and  then  my  thumb  was  paining  me  so  that  I 
said  to  myself,  'I  guess  you'd  better  go  ashore,  you  old 
fool;'  and  I  went. 

"That  man  at  the  fish-house  is  a  Portugee.  Me'n' 
him  used  to  go  pardners  fishing.  One  July  day  when 
we  was  five  mile  off  shore  in  our  dory  there  come  up  a 
sudden  storm.  It  thundered  and  rained  and  the  wind 
raised  a  heavy  swell.  When  we  was  down  in  the 


222        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

trough  of  the  waves  we  could  only  see  the  heavens 
above,  and  when  we  were  on  the  crest  we  could  see  all 
of  Nantucket  Island.  I  said  to  my  pardner:  'Old  boy, 
we've  got  caught.  We'll  have  to  bid  farewell  to  Nan- 
tucket  unless  we  have  a  streak  of  good  luck.' 

"The  waves  would  have  turned  our  boat  over  like 
a  shingle  in  no  time  if  we  hadn't  had  two  hundred  and 
some  odd  bluefish  in  it.  They  served  as  ballast,  and 
they  were  the  only  thing  that  saved  us. 

"When  I  was  thirteen,  at  the  time  of  the  Civil  War, 
I  ran  away  to  join  the  navy.  I  was  a  powder  monkey, 
and  it  was  my  job  to  lug  bags  of  powder  up  from  the 
magazine  to  the  guns.  After  the  war  I  went  on  voyages 
and  knocked  around  all  over  the  world.  But  at  last  I 
come  back  to  Nantucket.  I  landed  with  just  a  dollar 
in  my  pocket,  and  an  old  feller  with  a  hack  took  me 
up  to  my  mother's  home.  I  gave  him  fifty  cents,  and 
went  and  bought  a  pint  of  rum  with  the  money  I  had 
left.  Oh,  I  used  to  be  hail  fellow  well  met!  The  tougher 
the  crowd  I  got  into  the  better  I  liked  it,  and  now  I'm 
no  good. 

"I  come  back  here  broke.  I'd  seen  men  lookin'  for 
work  and  prayin'  to  God  not  to  find  it.  I'd  seen  men 
loafin'  and  lettin'  their  wives  support  'em  at  the  wash- 
tub.  They  wasn't  fit  to  be  classed  as  men.  They 
ought  to  have  been  strung  up  or  put  on  a  desert  island. 
I'd  seen  men  makin'  believe  they  was  drunk  so  a  cop 
would  collar  'em,  and  when  they  was  sentenced  to  three 
months  at  the  state  farm  they  was  happy  as  a  dog  with 


Nantucket  Days  223 

two  tails,  because  'twas  a  good  place  to  spend  the  winter. 
I've  no  love  or  respect  for  that  class  of  people.  What 
I  did  was  to  fish  and  peddle  what  I  caught  on  a  wheel- 
barrow around  town. 

"Time  went  along,  and  for  better  or  worse  I  married. 
I  knew  things  couldn't  be  any  worse.  The  woman  was 
a  widow  with  two  children,  and  people  said  I  was  a 
blame  fool  to  marry  her.  I'd  have  been  a  blame  fool 
if  I  hadn't  married  her.  She's  a  pretty  good  old  gal, 
and  now,  thank  God!  I've  got  a  home.  If  it  wasn't 
for  her  I'd  be  in  Davy  Jones'  locker. 

"She's  a  good  cook,  and  we  have  the  best  there  is 
on  our  table  as  far  as  sea  food  is  concerned.  I'm 
tellin'  you  there's  as  much  difference  between  fresh 
fish  and  those  you  get  inland  as  between  cheese  and 
chalk.  I  bring  in  a  fish  I've  caught  that's  hardly  dead 
yet.  'Here  you  are,  Ma,'  I  say;  and  she  washes  him 
up,  rolls  him  in  meal,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he's  in  the 
frypan.  You  can  eat  such  a  fish  with  a  relish.  But 
the  sweetness  is  all  gone  out  of  cold  storage  fish.  It 
ain't  worth  a  cuss. 

"For  several  summers  we  boarded  some  concreters 
at  our  house,  and  they  bargained  we  should  feed  'em 
on  fish.  No  meat  for  them.  So  they  had  fish  cooked  in 
all  kinds  of  ways,  and  we'd  make  fishballs,  and  we'd 
put  cold  fish  in  their  dinner  pails.  I  told  'em  that  when 
they  got  home  they'd  have  fishbones  comin'  out  behind 
their  ears.  I'd  get  clams  for  'em,  and  a  peck  wouldn't 
be  a  flea  bite  to  them  fellers.  'Don't  eat  the  shells,' 


224        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

I'd  say.  'I  want  to  feed  those  to  my  hens.'  They 
wanted  somethin'  good  and  plenty  of  it.  They  didn't 
want  to  be  served  the  way  they  would  be  at  some  hotels 
with  a  little  mess  of  this  and  a  little  mess  of  that — 
forty-nine  different  messes,  and  hardly  enough  in  any 
one  for  you  to  get  used  to  the  taste  of  it." 

About  this  time  my  host's  wife  came  in  and  asked 
him  for  the  key  to  the  shop.  He  explained  to  her  that 
he  had  gone  into  the  shop  not  long  before  and  left  his 
bunch  of  keys  on  a  bench,  and  when  he  came  out  he 
had  shut  the  door,  which  had  a  spring  lock  on  it,  and 
he  hadn't  made  up  his  mind  how  he  was  going  to  get 
it  open. 

She  went  out,  and  a  few  minutes  later  we  followed 
and  found  she  had  pried  back  the  lock  with  a  kitchen 
knife.  He  patted  her  affectionately  and  remarked, 
"The  next  time  you  go  to  town,  if  you'll  promise  to  be 
a  good  gal  and  not  overload  your  stomach  I'll  give  you 
five  cents." 

NOTE. — To  go  to  Nantucket  you  can  start  on  the  short  sea  voy- 
age at  either  New  Bedford  or  Woods  Hole.  The  boats  stop  at 
Martha's  Vineyard,  which  has  attractions  of  its  own  that  might 
well  lure  the  traveller  to  pause  there  and  make  its  acquaintance. 
But  Nantucket  itself  excels  all  other  New  England  islands  and 
coast  resorts  in  the  charm  of  its  unspoiled  quaintness,  and  a  first 
visit  to  it  is  sure  to  be  a  delightful  experience. 


XII 


ALONG    SHORE    IN    RHODE    ISLAND 

NO  more  fascinating  character  is  to  be  found 
among  the  savages  of  our  early  New  England 
history  than  King  Philip,  at  whose  hands  the 
colonists  suffered  so  much;  and  when  I  thought  of 
visiting  Rhode  Island  I  decided  that  what  I  most 
wanted  to  see  was  Mount  Hope,  where,  long  years  ago, 
this  famous  Indian  chief  had  dwelt  and  where  he  met 
his  tragic  death.  I  expected  as  soon  as  I  got  into  the 
vicinity  of  the  mountain  to  see  it  rising  against  the  sky 
in  at  least  moderately  imposing  proportions;  but  one 
is  obliged  to  have  a  quite  favorable  position  to  see  it  at 
all.  In  fact  it  is  nothing  but  a  hill,  and  not  much  of  a 
hill  at  that,  and  I  wandered  astray  again  and  again  on 
the  local  roadways  as  I  searched  for  it  one  autumn 
morning. 

The  region  between  it  and  Bristol,  the  nearest  town, 
two  miles  distant,  is  for  the  most  part  one  of  park-like 
fields  that  have  fine  trees  along  the  borders,  and  sturdy 
stone-wall  fences.  This  used  to  be  farming  country, 
but  the  better  farms  have  been  taken  by  city  people 
who  want  a  place  for  rural  retirement  in  the  summer, 
and  the  little  farms  have  fallen  into  the  hands  of  immi- 
grants from  Portugal.  I  sometimes  saw  men  digging 


226        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

potatoes  or  cutting  corn,  but  the  cultivated  fields  were 
few,  and  agriculture  as  a  means  of  livelihood  is  almost 
a  thing  of  the  past. 

At  length  the  pleasant,  pastoral  country  was  left 
behind  and  I  came  to  bleak  unfenced  uplands  whence  I 
could  look  off  on  the  sea  overhung  by  a  pearly  haze  and 
with  a  dazzling  pathway  across  its  surface  sunward. 
Here  I  happened  on  two  little  boys  watching  some 
grazing  cows.  They  were  sitting  among  the  bushes  and 
ripened  October  grasses  and  weeds  in  a  slight  hollow, 
where  the  sun  shone  warm  and  they  were  somewhat 
sheltered  from  the  brisk,  cool  wind  that  was  blowing. 
The  cows  needed  only  occasional  attention,  and  the 
hours  of  their  vigil  that  chilly  day  must  have  dragged 
slowly.  I  tried  to  talk  with  them,  but  with  slight 
success,  for  they  were  shy  little  Portuguese  whose 
knowledge  of  English  was  very  slender. 

Mount  Hope  was  now  close  at  hand  and  I  soon  reached 
its  bare,  rounded  summit.  The  land  was  thinly- 
grassed  pasturage,  and  the  turf  was  variegated  with 
stunted  goldenrod  and  white  and  purple  asters,  and 
there  were  multitudes  of  branching  thistles,  some  of 
them  still  in  blossom,  but  most  gone  to  seed  and  dry- 
stalked.  In  spots  grew  clumps  of  huckleberry  bushes 
and  gay-leaved  patches  of  little  sumacs  and  poison  ivy, 
while  now  and  then  occurred  gray  outcroppings  of 
rock  and  neglected  lines  of  stone-wall  that  the  frosts 
had  heaved  into  chaotic  ruin. 

The  hill  owes  its  name  to  the  Indians  who  called  it 


00 


Along  Shore  in  Rhode  Island  227 

Monthaup,  a  title  easily  Anglicized  to  Mount  Hope.  It 
is  the  highest  lift  of  land  in  all  the  rather  level  country 
around  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  and  it  occupies  a 
commanding  position  at  the  end  of  a  peninsula  hemmed 
about  by  irregular  inlets  from  the  sea.  The  steep 
southern  side  fronting  toward  one  of  the  broader  water- 
ways is  broken  by  a  rude  crag  of  lichened  quartz,  and 
on  the  slope  below  the  crag  King  Philip's  home  village 
had  stood.  The  place  was  sheltered  from  the  rough 
northwest  winds,  and  there  was  a  cool  spring  of  water 
at  the  foot  of  the  cliff.  Moreover,  close  by  the  spring 
is  a  niche  in  the  rock  known  as  "King  Philip's  Seat." 
Possibly  he  used  to  sit  there  and  meditate  while  he 
gazed  off  over  the  inlet  to  the  wooded  slopes  of  the 
shore  beyond.  Certainly  the  niche  is  in  form  very  well 
suited  to  its  traditional  use,  and  it  would  be  much  more 
perfect  if  visitors  did  not  have  the  habit  of  chipping  off 
pieces  to  carry  away  for  mementoes.  The  spot  is 
naturally  very  attractive,  but  unfortunately  it  is  a 
picnic  resort  that  has  failed,  and  scattered  roundabout 
are  all  sorts  of  ramshackle  buildings — big  and  little, 
broken-windowed,  leaky-roofed,  and  dubious  in  general. 
For  a  long  time  the  savage  dwellers  of  the  region  were 
friendly  with  the  whites,  and  Philip's  father,  Massasoit, 
not  only  ceded  them  land  when  they  wanted  it,  but 
fed  them  when  they  were  starving.  Philip,  as  he  grew 
older,  perceived  the  increasing  power  of  the  English 
with  alarm.  They  were  overrunning  the  whole  country, 
and  the  domain  of  the  Indians  was  constantly  contract- 


228        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

ing.  So  at  length  he  determined  to  act,  and  he  jour- 
neyed from  tribe  to  tribe  inciting  them  to  unite  to  drive 
the  white  men  back  whence  they  came.  The  struggle 
began  in  1675,  and  many  an  exposed  English  village 
was  wiped  out,  and  hundreds  of  the  settlers'  lives  were 
sacrificed. 

But  the  savages  suffered  far  more  than  their  foes, 
and  one  by  one  the  confederate  tribes  abandoned 
Philip  to  his  fate.  His  brother  and  most  trusted  fol- 
lowers fell  in  battle,  and  when  at  length  his  wife  and 
only  son  were  taken  prisoners,  he  exclaimed:  "My 
heartbreaks!  Now  I  am  ready  to  die." 

The  child  was  a  boy  of  nine,  and  the  Puritans,  who 
had  owed  so  much  to  his  grandfather,  sold  him  as  a 
slave  to  Bermuda.  King  Philip  was  forced  to  seek 
refuge  in  the  deepest  recesses  of  the  forest,  yet  even  in 
these  dire  straits  he  put  to  death  one  of  his  adherents 
who  presumed  to  speak  of  making  peace. 

After  a  time  he  wandered  back  with  a  few  followers 
to  Mount  Hope  and  encamped  to  the  northwestward  of 
the  mount  on  a  knoll  in  a  swamp.  Captain  Church,  the 
leader  of  the  forces  fighting  Philip,  learned  of  his  foe's 
place  of  retreat  through  an  Indian  deserter,  and  at 
once  started  with  a  well-armed  company  to  prevent 
the  chief's  escape  and  end  the  war.  The  English  com- 
mander ordered  his  men  to  approach  Philip's  camp  by 
night  from  the  more  accessible  side  as  silently  as  possi- 
ble, and  when  within  a  few  rods  to  lie  in  wait  till  day- 
light. Meanwhile  he  posted  a  squad  in  ambush  on  the 


Along  Shore  in  Rhode  Island  229 

other  side.  Morning  came,  and  one  of  Philip's  Indians 
caught  a  glimpse  of  their  lurking  enemies.  At  once  he 
and  his  companions  made  a  rush  to  escape.  Philip, 
however,  ran  straight  on  two  of  the  party  in  ambush — a 
white  man  and  an  Indian,  who  both  attempted  to  shoot 
him.  The  Englishman's  gun  missed  fire,  but  a  bullet  from 
his  companion's  musket  penetrated  the  heart  of  Philip, 
and  the  warrior  fell  forward  on  his  face  with  his  gun 
under  him  in  the  "miery  swamp." 

Our  pious  ancestors  were  wont  to  call  Philip  "a 
damnable  wretch;  a  hellish  monster;  a  bloody  villain;" 
etc.,  but  later  estimates  see  in  him  a  patriot  rising  in 
righteous  indignation  to  avenge  his  people  for  their 
wrongs,  and  to  protect  them  from  the  steadily  increasing 
encroachments  of  the  whites.  Devastation  marked  the 
path  of  his  warfare;  but  he  committed  no  act  of  in- 
humanity so  dreadful  as  that  of  the  whites  when  they 
burned  the  old  men  and  the  women  and  children  in  the 
wigwams  of  the  Narragansett  village  that  they  success- 
fully surprised,  and  his  treatment  of  his  English  cap- 
tives was  decidedly  more  generous  than  that  accorded 
to  the  Indians.  For  downright  brutality  the  Christian 
English  rarely  allowed  the  heathen  savages  to  outrival 
them. 

Tradition  has  identified  quite  definitely  the  spot  in 
the  swamp  where  Philip  fell,  and  I  sought  it  out,  push- 
ing along  through  the  delicate  sprays  of  the  green  under- 
wood and  picking  my  way  amid  pools  and  mud  bright- 
ened as  if  with  bits  of  flame  by  the  gold  and  scarlet  of 


230        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

early-fallen  autumn  leaves.  The  sunshine  flickered 
down  into  the  still  depths,  and  when  I  looked  up  I 
caught  glimpses  of  blue  sky  and  drifting  clouds;  and 
I  heard  the  breeze  rising  and  falling,  now  a  soft  whisper 
amid  the  foliage,  now  a  mellow  roaring  that  thrashed 
the  upper  leafage  into  a  wild  tumult.  Probably  the 
present  appearance  of  the  swamp  is  much  the  same  as 
it  was  when  the  brave  chief  met  his  fate;  and  to  recall 
the  incidents  of  that  grim  tragedy  on  the  very  ground 
where  it  occurred  is  an  impressive  experience. 

At  length  I  returned  to  Bristol,  an  old  seaport,  which, 
though  it  has  grown  and  changed,  still  retains  hints  of 
a  romantic  past.  Particularly  interesting  are  the 
ancient  resident  streets  near  the  waterside  with  the 
thickset  homes  snug  to  the  sidewalk  and  not  infre- 
quently encroaching  on  it  with  their  quaint  little  porches 
and  steps.  Then,  too,  there  is  in  the  heart  of  the  town 
a  broad  common  with  graceful  elms  lining  every  border 
and  all  the  criscrossing  paths.  Its  shadowy  green- 
turfed  repose  was  very  delightful,  and  here  I  made  the 
acquaintance  of  two  elderly  villagers  who  were  having 
a  companionable  chat  on  one  of  the  benches  under  the 
trees.  The  more  venerable  of  the  two  lived  in  a  tiny 
cottage  near  by,  and  when  he  rose  to  go  home  he  in- 
vited me  to  accompany  him.  I  was  glad  of  the  chance 
to  visit  with  him  further,  and  we  walked  along  together 
to  his  dwelling.  He  took  me  around  to  the  back  door 
from  which  a  narrow  path  of  irregular-edged  flagging 
led  to  some  latticed  grape-arbors  hung  full  of  fruit; 


Along  Shore  in  Rhode  Island  231 

and  beyond  the  arbors  was  a  little  garden.  The  old 
man  delivered  to  his  wife  the  basket  he  carried  with  its 
various  packages  from  the  grocery,  and  the  three  of  us 
sat  down  in  the  kitchen  and  talked  about  the  town  as 
it  used  to  be. 

"I'm  over  eighty,"  the  man  said,  "and  I  c'n  remem- 
ber when  Bristol  was  an  important  port.  A  great  many 
well-to-do  sea  captains  lived  here  who  bought  their 
own  freight  and  went  where  they  was  a-min'  to  to  sell 
it.  They  tended  to  all  the  business  themselves.  Six- 
teen whaleships  was  owned  in  the  place  and  about  the 
same  number  of  merchant  ships  and  a  lot  of  brigs.  Our 
wharves  extended  along  shore  a  mile,  and  I've  seen  'em 
all  loaded,  and  a  square-rigger  lying  at  every  wharf. 
There  was  ships  from  all  over  the  world;  and  when 
one  of  them  old  square-riggers  come  in  or  went  out 
with  every  sail  set  and  flags  flyin'  it  was  somethin' 
worth  lookin'  at. 

"Those  was  days  when  business  was  lively  here  in 
Bristol,  and  Water  Street  was  full  of  people  and  teams 
all  the  time.  On  the  ships  hundreds  of  men  was  at 
work  h'istin'  out  the  oil  and  hemp  and  iron,  and  the 
sugar,  coffee,  and  molasses  and  all  those  sort  of  things. 
On  shore  there  was  lots  of  coopers  makin'  casks  for  the 
whalemen,  and  blacksmiths'  shops  makin'  harpoons 
and  chains,  and  there  was  shoemakers  makin'  shoes 
for  the  sailors  who  was  goin'  on  voyages  to  be  away 
perhaps  two  or  three  years,  and  there  were  tailors' 
shops  makin'  clothing  for  'em;  and  we  had  a  big  ship- 


232        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

yard  here,  and  sail  lofts  makin'  sails,  and  several  rope 
walks,  some  on  'em  five  or  six  hundred  feet  long.  How 
the  ways  of  workin'  have  changed!  Why,  with  the 
machinery  that's  been  invented,  more  rope  can  be  made 
now  in  a  building  fifty  feet  square  in  one  day  than  an 
old-fashioned  rope  walk  could  make  in  a  month.  It's 
the  same  way  with  other  things.  If  you're  goin'  to 
have  a  new  house  these  days  the  heft  of  it  is  got  out  by 
machinery;  and  in  fact  steam  and  electricity  have  a 
big  share  in  about  all  the  jobs  that's  done.  But  even 
if  we  did  used  to  do  everything  by  hand,  nobody  didn't 
realize  they  was  workin'  so  awful  hard. 

"There  was  no  railroads  here,  and  in  winter  when  the 
ice  kept  ships  from  reaching  Providence  they  came  to 
our  wharves,  and  all  the  farmers  around  would  turn 
out  with  their  oxsleds  to  carry  the  freight  by  land  the 
rest  of  the  way.  They'd  get  loaded  up — a  string  on  'em 
the  length  of  two  squares — and  all  start  off  together 
about  midnight,  and  get  back  the  next  night,  each  with 
a  load  to  go  on  the  vessels. 

"When  I  was  young  we  shipped  great  quantities  of 
onions  from  this  region.  Acres  and  acres  was  grown 
here,  and  lots  o'  people  didn't  do  anything  else  but 
raise  that  one  crop.  We'd  bunch  'em  by  braiding  the 
tops  with  four  strands  of  rye  straw.  The  bunches 
would  have  the  big  onions  at  the  bottom  and  gradually 
taper  off  to  little  ones.  About  twenty  bunches  made  a 
bushel.  I've  sot  on  a  stool  many  a  time  half  the  night 
bunchin'  onions,  and  three  or  four  men  helpin'  me, 


Along  Shore  in  Rhode  Island  233 

when  I  was  in  a  hurry  to  get  'em  off.  You  could  pick  'em 
up  and  braid  'em  into  bunches  with  that  air  rye  straw 
almost  as  fast  as  a  hen  can  pick  up  corn.  We'd  load  a 
thousand  bunches  on  a  cart  to  wunst  and  carry  to  the 
ships,  and  they  was  handled  careful,  I  tell  you.  They 
went  to  Cuba  and  Tangier  and  Porto  Rique  and  all 
around,  and  they  usually  brought  big  prices.  Some 
farms  wouldn't  get  through  bunching  and  selling  till 
March,  and  then  it  was  most  time  to  begin  work  on  the 
next  crop. 

"One  of  the  first  things  I  c'n  remember  is  the  gineral 
muster  we  used  to  have  every  fall  on  the  common.  It 
was  an  all-day  celebration  for  trainin'  and  exercisin' 
the  militia;  but  the  musters  was  gin  up  while  I  was  a 
little  boy.  Where  the  band-stand  now  is  there  was  a 
liberty  pole,  and  we'd  h'ist  a  flag  on  it  muster  days  and 
Fourth  of  July.  The  flag  was  all  white  except  for  a 
gray  eagle  and  several  stars. 

"The  common  then  didn't  have  all  these  ellums  on 
it,  but  just  a  few  large  buttonwoods,  and  along  the 
street  walks  we  had  cherry  trees.  We  didn't  grow  much 
fruit  on  our  own  land,  for  we  wanted  to  raise  the  useful 
and  substantial  things.  Fruit  ain't  nawthin' — it  tastes 
kind  o'  nice,  but  'taint  like  a  good  hill  of  potatoes.  If 
a  man  wanted  to  set  out  a  fruit  tree  he'd  start  an  apple 
tree.  You  get  a  barrel  of  apples  in  your  cellar  and  you 
can  make  apple  pies  and  apple  slump  (apples  cooked 
in  a  deep  dish  with  a  thick  crust  on  top).  But  what's 
the  good  of  these  'ere  pears  and  such  fruits  ?  Very  few 


234        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

of  'em  was  raised,  and  very  few  grapes.  If  we  wanted 
grapes  we'd  go  off  in  the  swamps  to  the  east'ard  and 
pick  'em  where  they  grew  wild,  and  we'd  get  wild  pears 
on  the  hills." 

"We  might  just  as  well  depend  on  the  hills  and 
pastures  now  for  our  fruit,"  the  old  lady  said,  looking 
out  of  the  window  toward  the  garden.  "The  torment- 
ing young  ones  around  here  come  right  onto  our  prem- 
ises and  pick  the  fruit  before  it  is  ripe  and  tear  every- 
thing all  to  pieces." 

"They  wa'n't  like  that  when  I  was  young,"  the  old 
man  declared.  "They  was  brought  up  to  behave 
themselves." 

"They  ain't  brought  up  at  all  now,"  his  wife  said. 
"They  grow  up  wild.  We  had  almost  none  of  their 
advantages,  but  the  more  advantages  children  have 
the  worse  they  seem  to  be.  Oh,  they  act  like  the  old 
scratch!" 

"Yes,  things  have  changed,"  the  man  commented. 
"Even  the  weather  is  different.  You  know  when  we 
have  a  ten  or  twelve  inch  snowfall  people  will  say, 
'  Why,  that  is  an  old-fashioned  storm ! '  Tain't  nawthin' 
of  the  sort.  We  don't  get  any  such  big  snows  as  they 
used  to  have.  I've  seen  the  snow  cover  our  fences  and 
stone  walls  so  you  could  walk  right  over  'em,  and  all 
on  a  level,  too.  Why,  gracious  sake  alive!  we  had  to 
shovel  out  the  roads,  and  we'd  make  such  channels  and 
have  the  snow  so  high  on  either  side  that  a  common- 
sized  boy  couldn't  look  out  over  it.  Now  the  snows 


Along  Shore  in  Rhode  Island  235 

are  never  so  deep  but  that  with  a  little  plough  hitched 
side  of  a  two-horse  sled  they  can  break  out  the  roads 
and  go  about  their  business.  Mother,  don't  you  recol- 
lect how  we  used  to  have  to  shovel  out  our  roads?" 

"Yes,  every  winter,"  she  replied;  "and  until  you'd 
finished  shoveling,  the  milkcarts  couldn't  get  to  town." 

"To  show  you  what  our  storms  was  like,"  the  old 
man  remarked,  "I  want  to  tell  you  about  a  young 
couple  that  lived  on  the  outskirts  of  the  village.  They 
woke  up  one  time  after  havin'  what  they  thought  had 
been  their  usual  night's  rest;  but  the  room  was  still 
dark  as  a  pocket,  and  so  they  went  to  sleep  again. 
When  they  woke  up  the  second  time  there  was  no  more 
sign  of  daylight  than  before,  and  the  man  says, '  'Pears 
to  me  this  is  the  longest  night  that  ever  I  see.' 

"  'Well,  I  think  so,  too,'  she  says. 

"'I'm  goin'  to  get  up,'  says  he;  and  they  both  got 
up  and  went  to  the  kitchen  on  the  other  side  of  the  house 
and  found  the  sun  shining  in  from  the  west.  It  was 
way  along  in  the  afternoon,  and  there  had  been  a 
snowstorm  the  previous  night  that  had  left  a  drift 
completely  covering  their  bedroom  window. 

"How  would  people  now  stand  those  winters?  Folks 
ain't  so  well  and  rugged  as  they  used  to  be.  You  take 
the  women — there  ain't  half  of  'em  these  days  able  to 
do  their  own  housework.  But,  Lord-a-mercy!  in  old 
times  they'd  do  all  there  was  to  do  indoors,  and  a  lot 
besides  in  the  fields.  They'd  go  out  and  hay  it,  and 
drop  corn  and  husk,  and  they'd  hoe  and  do  other  work 


236        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

in  the  onions.  We're  more  helpless  in  a  good  many 
ways.  For  instance,  it  used  to  be  the  habit,  if  you 
wanted  to  trade  at  a  store,  to  buy  what  you  wanted 
and  pay  for  it  and  carry  it  home.  Now,  you  most 
likely  get  the  things  charged  and  have  'em  sent  home, 
no  matter  how  little  you  buy;  and  in  one  way  or  an- 
other you've  got  to  pay  for  the  time  of  the  man  that 
does  the  delivering,  and  for  the  horse  and  wagon  and 
the  horse  feed  and  stabling,  and  for  paper  bags,  boxes, 
and  all  that. 

"But  there  are  ways,  too,  in  which  we  have  im- 
proved. Take  the  matter  of  lights — when  I  was  a  boy 
karosene  wa'n't  known,  and  we  had  whale-oil  lamps 
that  gave  about  the  same  light  as  a  candle.  They 
had  two  little  tubes  with  wicks  in  'em  that  run  down 
into  the  oil,  but  there  was  no  chimbleys. 

"Stoves  are  another  improvement.  When  I  was  a 
boy  we  had  fireplaces,  and,  sir!  if  the  thermometer  was 
ten  below  zero,  and  the  wind  blowin'  a  gale  it  was  hard 
to  keep  warm.  Sometimes  we'd  hang  a  bedquilt  on 
the  backs  of  chairs  in  front  of  the  fire  and  set  inside  of 
that.  Right  around  the  hearth  it  would  usually  be 
good  and  hot,  but  a  little  farther  back  the  water  in  a 
pitcher  on  the  table  might  be  freezin';  and  mornings 
you'd  very  likely  wake  up  to  find  a  snowbank  on  your 
bed,  if  you  slept  upstairs.  However,  we  got  along 
somehow,  and  kept  middlin'  well  and  hearty,  and  when 
you  went  outdoors  the  cold  didn't  take  hold  of  you  as 
it  does  now.  Yes,  as  old  Squire  Bullock  told  his  son 


Along  Shore  in  Rhode  Island  237 

when  they  were  putting  in  a  stove  and  doing  away  with 
a  fireplace,  '  'Tain't  healthy,  but  it's  more  comfortable.' 

"People  don't  cook  such  things  as  they  used  to. 
Mother  would  hang  the  pots  on  the  crane  and  put  in 
beef,  pork  and  cabbage  and  other  vegetables,  and  you'd 
have  a  dinner  that  would  do  you  some  good,  and  that 
would  stand  by  you  so  you  could  go  out  and  swing  an 
ax  or  a  seldge-hammer.  But  now  there  are  hundreds 
of  persons  who  can't  eat  a  piece  of  pork;  or  of  beef, 
either,  if  it's  got  any  fat  on  it." 

"Father  is  old-fashioned,"  his  wife  said.  "If  he 
wa'n't,  mebbe  he'd  think  different." 

"Those  same  folks  that  can't  eat  pork  will  eat  any 
quantity  of  sweet  things  to  sweeten  'em  up,"  the  old 
man  continued.  "But  what's  the  good  of  cake  and 
pie?  They  ain't  nawthin'  only  windgalls.  And  this 
'ere  sugar  stuff  all  colored  up,  and  the  chocolate  candies 
— we  didn't  have  no  such  stuff  when  I  was  a  boy.  The 
candy  business  is  a  big  thing  now.  So  is  the  ice  cream 
business.  We  never  had  any  ice  cream,  and  people 
didn't  even  store  ice  for  other  uses;  but  now  every  one 
has  to  have  a  refrigerator  and  they'll  buy  a  ten  cent 
lump  of  ice  to  keep  a  cent's  worth  of  milk  on. 

"Did  you  ever  notice  what  a  lot  of  boys  smoke 
cigarets  these  days?  We  didn't  have  cigarets  at  all  in 
my  time;  but  once  when  I  was  quite  young  a  whale- 
ship  come  in — it  was  the  ship  Bowditch, — and  some  of  us 
boys  thought  we'd  go  aboard.  So  we  rowed  out,  and 
when  we  was  on  deck  lookin'  around  we  noticed  a  barrel 


238        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

chuck  brimmin'  full  o'  cigars.  The  sailors  had  made 
'em  themselves  out  of  wild  tobacco  they'd  got  some- 
where in  their  voyage  round  Cape  Horn.  They  smoked 
'em  when  they  wanted  to,  and  they  told  us  to  help 
ourselves.  Well,  we  took  three  or  four  apiece  and 
smoked  'em,  and  when  I  got  home  I  was  taken  sick, 
and  didn't  I  heave  up  Jonah!  Yes,  I  did  heave  up 
Jonah  terribly.  I  laid  right  down  on  the  floor  and  let 
fly — By  Jerusalem!  Then,  when  I  was  all  through  and 
cleaned  up,  I  got  the  pitapats — my  mother  give  me 
them.  She  took  her  slipper  and  says,  'Now,  if  you've 
got  over  the  smokin'  you  been  a-doin',  I'll  smoke  you!' 
And  she  did,  I  George,  sir! 

"Well,  in  recallin'  what  times  was  long  ago  I  often 
think  I'd  like  to  go  back  there  for  some  things;  and 
whether  we're  really  much  better  off  as  a  whole  I  don't 
know.  We  got  enough  to  eat  in  them  days,  and  we 
have  enough  to  eat  now.  We  had  to  work  then,  and 
we  have  to  work  now.  Seems  as  if  it  amounted  to  pretty 
much  the  same  thing." 

Evening  was  approaching,  and  the  room  was  getting 
dusky  when  I  left  the  little  cottage  where  I  had  been 
so  agreeably  entertained.  I  went  out  into  the  town; 
but  it  was  not  quite  the  same  place  it  had  been  before, 
for  the  reminiscences  to  which  I  had  listened  lent  it  a 
new  interest,  and  every  scene  in  the  older  part  called 
up  visions  of  the  past. 

Before  taking  final  leave  of  the  vicinity  I  made  a  side 
trip  to  Newport.  A  little  steamer  took  me  part  way, 


Along  Shore  in  Rhode  Island  239 

and  then  I  went  on  by  trolley  over  gently  rolling  farm- 
lands. The  fields  were  clean  and  attractive,  the  farm 
homes  looked  symbolic  of  thrift,  and  here  and  there 
were  conical  stacks  of  hay,  sometimes  occurring  singly, 
sometimes  in  groups,  and  always  charming  in  their 
grace  of  outline,  and  their  suggestion  of  a  goodly  store 
of  winter  food  for  the  stock. 

The  world  hears  of  Newport  almost  wholly  as  a 
resort  of  multi-millionaires  who  have  palatial  summer 
homes  there;  and  one  fancies  that  the  town  must  be 
quite  impressive  in  the  beauty  of  its  situation  and  in  its 
noble  thoroughfares  and  costly  architecture.  But  in 
reality  it  is  a  rather  quiet  and  ordinary  old  village  with 
the  narrow  streets  and  quaint  crowded  wooden  build- 
ings characteristic  of  so  many  of  the  colonial  towns 
along  the  New  England  coast.  It  looked  as  if  it  might 
sleep  on  endlessly  in  comfortable  stagnation;  yet  in 
the  minds  of  some  of  its  residents  it  has  a  glorious  future 
and  will  in  time  rival  New  York  as  a  seaport  and  com- 
mercial center. 

The  Newport  of  the  people  of  wealth  and  fashion  is 
off  on  the  outskirts,  a  settlement  by  itself,  and  appar- 
ently having  no  influence  on  the  aspect  of  the  old  port 
village.  Here  the  "big-bugs,"  to  quote  a  local  designa- 
tion, have  built  their  mansions  on  an  upland  that  juts 
seaward  with  a  long  ragged  frontage  of  cliffs.  The 
offlook  afforded  is  delightful  and  the  situation  conveys 
hints  of  a  breezy  summer  coolness  that  makes  it  in  its 
way  quite  ideal.  Some  one  has  said  that  the  homes  of 


240        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

this  community,  while  in  themselves  charming  to  the 
beholder,  are  like  jewels  without  a  setting — that  is, 
the  grounds  about  are  too  circumscribed  to  give  the 
architecture  its  full  effect.  No  doubt  this  is  to  some 
degree  the  case,  yet  so  far  as  the  buildings  fronting  on 
the  sea  were  concerned,  they  seemed  to  me  not  crowded, 
but  only  socially  near  each  other. 

NOTES. — The  visitor  to  Rhode  Island  will  naturally  wish  to  see 
Providence,  the  capital  of  the  state.  Roger  Williams  started  a  settle- 
ment there  in  1636  after  fleeing  from  persecution  in  Massachusetts, 
and  named  the  place  out  of  gratitude  for  his  escape.  In  the  city  are 
many  fine  examples  of  colonial  architecture,  and  the  suburbs  offer 
opportunities  for  delightful  drives. 

Newport,  called  by  the  Indians  Aquidneck — the  Isle  of  Peace — 
was  commercially  more  important  than  New  York  in  1770.  In  one 
of  its  parks  can  be  seen  that  famous  historical  relic,  the  old  Stone 
Mill,  claimed  to  have  been  built  by  the  Norsemen  about  the  year 
looo.  A  notable  attraction  of  the  shore  is  the  Cliff  Walk  which 
for  three  miles  runs  along  the  brow  of  the  bluffs  that  front  the  ocean. 
To  see  the  magnificent  palaces  of  the  wealthy  and  fashionable 
summer  colony  at  all  completely  requires  a  drive  of  ten  miles.  The 
boating,  bathing,  and  fishing,  and  the  motoring  trips  around  the 
city  are  unexcelled.  Newport  takes  especial  pride  in  the  remarkable 
mildness  of  its  climate,  for  the  summer  is  comparatively  cool,  and 
the  average  winter  temperature  is  higher  than  that  of  Washington. 

The  main  highways  in  the  state  are  macadam,  and  many  of  the 
others  are  good  gravel  or  dirt. 


XIII 

OLD    PUT'S    COUNTRY 

ONE  of  the  most  vigorously  original  and  inter- 
esting characters  of  our  colonial  and  Revolu- 
tionary days  was  General  Israel  Putnam.  For 
the  greater  part  of  his  life  he  made  his  home  at  Pomfret, 
Connecticut;  and  thither  I  journeyed  drawn  by  the 
lodestone  of  his  fame,  which  the  passing  years  have 
enhanced  rather  than  diminished.  I  knew  nothing  of 
the  place  beforehand,  except  that  on  the  map  it  looked 
quite  remote  from  everywhere,  and  I  hoped  to  find  it  a 
sleepy  and  rustic  little  town  with  a  gentle  flavor  of  the 
long  ago  still  lingering  in  its  aspect  and  manner  of  life. 
I  arrived  one  windy  and  chilly  evening  in  the  month 
of  May,  and  climbed  the  long  hill  that  led  to  the  village. 
It  has  a  truly  noble  site  on  the  hilltop,  where  it  enjoys 
the  best  of  air  and  sweeping  views  in  all  directions. 
But  the  old-time  hamlet  has  been  inundated  with 
summer  residents  from  the  cities,  its  former  homes  have 
been  either  wiped  out  or  rejuvenated  beyond  recogni- 
tion, and  it  was  too  garish  and  new  and  too  mani- 
festly artificial  to  give  unalloyed  delight.  I  could  not 
find  a  single  structure  on  Pomfret  Hill  that  carried  the 
imagination  back  to  the  past.  Even  the  ancient  wooden 
church  had  lost  its  robes  of  white  and  had  been  painted 


242        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

in  modern  colors  to  conform  to  the  wishes  of  the  pro- 
prietor of  an  adjacent  hotel  who  wanted  its  tints  to 
match  those  of  his  hotel.  The  feature  of  the  village 
that  I  liked  best  was  a  big  boys'  school.  The  buildings 
were  pleasing,  the  situation  on  that  high,  tree-em- 
bowered hill  was  ideal,  and  the  boy  students  enlivening 
the  neighborhood  with  their  coming  and  going,  and  with 
their  sports  on  the  playgrounds,  had  real  charm. 

There  were  two  hotels,  and  I  applied  at  one  of  them 
for  lodging.  A  lady  who  seemed  to  be  the  manager 
regarded  me  suspiciously,  made  some  inquiries  about 
my  business,  and  politely  yet  firmly  turned  me  away 
with  the  excuse  that  they  were  doing  some  renovating 
that  made  it  inconvenient  to  receive  guests  just  then. 

I  trudged  off  to  the  other  hotel  and  entered  the  office. 
At  a  roll-top  desk  in  a  corner  sat  the  proprietor — a 
stout  and  florid  individual  who  was  an  epitome  of  well- 
fed  comfort.  He  was  examining  a  bill  very  attentively 
through  a  magnifying  glass,  and  I  awaited  his  leisure. 
Finally  he  swung  around  and  brought  rne  into  the 
range  of  his  vision  and  I  proffered  my  request  for  lodg- 
ing. But  he  said  he  did  not  take  transients.  I  told 
him  how  I  had  fared  at  the  other  hotel  and  asked  him 
what  I  was  to  do.  He  did  not  know,  but  spoke  of  a 
boarding-house  where  the  barn  help  lodged,  only  he 
believed  that  was  full,  and  on  the  whole  was  inclined 
to  recommend  that  I  seek  the  next  town,  seven  miles 
distant. 

So  I  left  him.     I  had  my  doubts  about  the  excuses 


Making  a  rug 


Old  Put's  Country  243 

of  these  hotel  people,  and  could  only  conclude  that  the 
style  in  which  I  travelled  was  not  to  them  satisfactorily 
suggestive  of  opulence.  My  chief  desire  now  was  to 
get  off  the  hill  and  away  from  that  modern  hamlet  of 
wealth.  The  sun  had  set,  and  the  mirk  of  night  was 
fast  thickening,  and  I  was  increasingly  anxious  to  find 
shelter.  Presently  I  accosted  a  man  I  met  and  told 
him  my  experience.  "I  suppose,"  I  said  in  conclusion, 
"that  I  might  go  and  spend  the  night  in  Putnam's 
wolf  den." 

"Yes,  you  might,"  he  responded;  "but  it  wouldn't 
be  advisable.  Them  rocks  harbor  too  many  rattle- 
snakes. So  the  hotels  wouldn't  take  you  in?  You'd 
got  the  money  to  pay  for  your  accommodation,  hadn't 
you?  And  no  bugs  or  anything  of  that  sort?  Well, 
I've  known  the  proprietor  of  the  second  place  you 
applied  at  ever  since  he  was  a  boy,  and  that  man  wants 
the  earth  with  a  barbed  wire  fence  round  it.  But  I'll 
tell  you  where  you  can  get  kept.  You  go  right  on  along 
this  road  to  the  third  house  and  try  there.  You'll  find 
quite  a  family — the  man  has  married  a  second  time  and 
got  some  young  children — kind  of  a  rowen  crop — but 
he'll  make  room  for  you." 

My  chance  acquaintance  was  right,  and  the  shelter 
for  which  I  asked  was  granted.  The  "rowen  crop" 
had  already  gone  to  bed,  but  I  sat  and  talked  for  a 
while  with  my  host.  "Thirty-five  or  forty  years  ago," 
he  said,  "this  was  strictly  a  farming  town,  and  up  on 
the  hill  was  an  old-fashioned  church  and  a  village  of 


244        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

white  or  red  farmhouses.  Some  of  those  old  houses  are 
there  yet;  but  they're  a  good  deal  like  the  Irishman's 
shirt — he  patched  it  till  you  couldn't  see  the  original 
cloth.  Yes,  the  new  owners  have  remodelled  'em,  and 
built  on  porte-cochers  and  the  devil  knows  what  so't 
now  they  don't  look  anything  like  the  houses  they  used 
to  be. 

"A  few  of  us  outside  of  the  village  still  farm.  Our 
worst  trouble  is  in  finding  help.  Seems  as  if  everybody 
had  an  idea  of  getting  a  living  some  other  way  than  by 
working  for  it.  Wages  are  going  up  and  the  workers 
are  becoming  more  independent  all  the  time.  I  hire 
help  a  good  deal,  and  yet  I  consider  myself  a  laboring 
man;  for  I  work  hard  all  day  and  nearly  every  day.  I 
think  I  can  see  both  sides,  and  the  feature  of  the  case 
to  my  mind  is  this — the  relative  positions  of  employer 
and  employed  are  much  the  same  as  that  of  a  man  to 
his  horses  and  oxen.  If  our  beasts  of  burden  knew 
their  strength  we  couldn't  control  'em.  Well,  the 
working-people  are  beginning  to  find  out  their  power, 
and  often  they  ain't  wisely  led  and  just  smash  things. 
It's  created  sort  of  an  unnatural  condition." 

While  we  were  talking  he  had  a  call  at  the  telephone 
and  in  responding  to  it  I  noticed  that  he  inquired  rather 
solicitously  after  some  one's  health.  When  he  hung  up 
the  receiver  he  turned  to  me,  saying,  "I  was  speaking 
with  a  house  where  there's  an  old  lady  nearly  ninety. 
She's  been  quite  sick,  and  they  thought  she  would  die. 
Her  two  daughters  were  a  good  deal  flustered  getting 


Old  Put's  Country  245 

the  house  ready  for  the  funeral;  but  the  old  lady  is 
better,  and  she's  got  up  and  is  bossing  the  job  herself." 

The  next  morning  I  started  off  to  hunt  up  Putnam's 
wolf  den,  which  was  two  or  three  miles  distant.  The 
same  chilly,  tempestuous  wind  I  had  encountered  the 
day  before  was  blowing;  yet  the  birds  sang  cheerfully, 
and  the  swallows  skimming  low  over  the  meadows 
seemed  not  to  mind  either  the  gale  or  the  cold.  Nor 
was  I  uncomfortable  myself.  The  weather  would  have 
to  be  very  sharp  indeed  when  one  could  not  get  warm 
walking  up  hill  and  down  dale  among  those  billowy 
uplands.  Stone  walls  were  the  common  fencing  of  the 
region.  They  hemmed  in  the  roadways  and  divided 
the  fields  with  their  gray,  lichened  bulwarks,  and  the 
ruddy-leaved  poison  ivy  vines  crept  in  and  out  of  their 
crevices,  and  other  wild  shrubbery  throve  along  their 
borders  comparatively  safe  from  the  attacks  of  the 
thrifty  farmers.  They  were  the  castles,  too,  of  the 
mice  and  similar  little  creatures,  though  you  might 
scarcely  suspect  the  presence  of  these  inhabitants,  they 
so  seldom  showed  themselves. 

Fully  two  thousand  people  visit  the  den  every  year 
and  the  route  leading  from  the  public  way  off  to  the 
woodland  in  which  it  is  located  is  a  well  travelled  road. 
"The  visitors  are  from  all  over  the  country,"  one  of  the 
local  dwellers  explained  to  me.  "You  ain't  no  idea  how 
far  some  of  'em  come.  In  fact,  those  from  a  distance  are 
apt  to  take  more  interest  than  those  whose  homes  are 
close  by.  Now,  my  grandfather  lived  eighty-four  years 


246        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

within  a  mile  of  the  wolf  den,  and  part  of  the  time  he 
owned  the  land  it  was  on;  but  he  didn't  care  about  it 
and  never  went  to  see  it." 

The  pilgrims  to  the  wolf  den  usually  go  in  teams,  and 
they  can  drive  to  within  a  few  rods  of  it,  and  from  the 
hitching-place  a  multitude  of  feet  have  made  a  plainly- 
marked  trail  that  took  me  right  to  the  spot.  There  I 
stood  before  a  black  opening  that  went  back  into  a 
shattered  ledge,  and  the  great  blocks  of  granite  were 
cleft  so  regularly  and  lay  so  well-arranged  to  form  the 
cavern  that  you  would  almost  suspect  it  was  the  work 
of  some  gigantic  aboriginal  builder. 

The  opening  was  about  two  feet  wide,  and  high 
enough  to  allow  a  man  to  crawl  in  on  his  hands  and 
knees;  but  the  space  between  roof  and  floor  became 
more  cramped  farther  in.  The  brown  last  year's  leaves 
lay  strewn  about  outside,  and  a  strawberry  plant  was 
in  bloom  and  a  tuft  of  grass  grew  in  gentle  security  at 
the  very  mouth  of  the  savage  cavity.  It  was  on  a 
rough,  steep  hillside  thinly  wooded  with  oaks  that 
sprang  up  from  the  rock-strewn  earth.  Boughs  and 
bushes  were  everywhere  feathered  with  new  leafage 
which  was  tremulous  with  the  wind  soughing  through 
the  forest.  Except  for  the  music  of  this  sylvan  harp 
there  was  almost  complete  silence,  though  I  recall  a 
woodpecker  on  one  of  the  tree-trunks  making  a  zigzag 
study  of  the  bark  and  tapping  here  and  there  in  spots 
that  seemed  promising.  No  doubt  nature  was  just  as 
quiet  in  that  far-gone  time  when  the  crowd  of  men  and 


The  wolf  den 


Old  Put's  Country  247 

boys  gathered  here  to  destroy  the  wolf  that  had  been 
driven  into  its  lair. 

Putnam  had  come  to  Pomfret  in  1738  at  the  age  of 
twenty-two,  shortly  after  his  marriage.  He  did  not 
live  on  Pomfret  Hill  where  I  had  been  the  evening 
previous,  but  five  miles  south  in  the  village  of  Brook- 
lyn. "In  those  days  of  comparative  simplicity,"  one 
of  his  biographers  says,  writing  in  1846,  "few  of  the 
costly  luxuries  of  the  present  day  were  known.  The 
hard  and  burdensome  yoke  of  European  fashion,  which 
grinds  so  many  of  us  into  the  dust  was  not  laid  on  the 
colonies." 

It  is  no  wonder  then  that  a  man  of  Putnam's  in- 
dustry and  energy  should  in  a  few  years  find  himself 
possessed  of  a  comfortable  and  substantial  home,  his 
clearings  well  fenced  and  cultivated,  and  his  pastures 
handsomely  stocked.  Like  many  of  his  neighbors 
he  had  a  flock  of  sheep,  and  in  common  with  them  he 
suffered  year  after  year  from  the  ravages  of  a  certain 
she-wolf.  They  recognized  their  enemy  by  her  foot- 
prints; for  she  had  at  some  time  been  caught  in  a  trap 
and  escaped  by  leaving  the  toes  of  one  foot  behind. 
When  too  closely  pursued  to  carry  on  her  depredations 
any  longer  with  safety  she  would  abandon  the  vicinity 
altogether  for  the  season.  But  she  invariably  returned 
the  ensuing  winter,  and  at  last  Putnam  entered  into 
an  agreement  with  five  of  his  neighbors  to  watch  for 
and  follow  the  wolf  until  she  was  killed. 

They  began  the  pursuit  immediately  after  a  light  fall 


248        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

of  snow  at  the  opening  of  the  winter.  Over  the  hills, 
through  forest  and  swamp  they  went  to  the  banks  of  a 
stream  six  miles  distant.  There  the  wolf  turned  and 
made  back  directly  to  Pomfret  and  entered  the  now 
famous  den  in  the  rocks.  Here  a  guard  was  set,  and  a 
crowd  of  men  and  boys  assembled  from  the  region 
around  with  dogs  and  guns,  straw  and  sulphur.  A 
fire  was  made  in  the  mouth  of  the  cave,  but  neither 
smoke  nor  fumes  had  any  effect — probably  because  they 
escaped  in  the  crevices  before  they  penetrated  to  the 
innermost  recess  where  the  wolf  was. 

The  hours  passed  with  various  fruitless  efforts  until 
it  was  nearly  midnight,  and  then  Putnam  proposed  to 
take  a  torch  and  go  into  the  cavern  to  investigate. 
His  neighbors  remonstrated  in  vain.  After  fastening 
a  rope  to  one  of  his  legs  and  ordering  those  outside  to 
pull  him  forth  when  he  signalled  by  kicking,  he  stripped 
off  his  coat  and  vest  and,  armed  only  with  a  torch, 
crawled  in  at  the  opening.  When  he  had  advanced 
about  twenty  feet  he  saw  the  glaring  eyeballs  of  the 
wolf  at  the  farther  end  of  the  cavity,  scarcely  three 
yards  distant.  He  gave  a  hearty  kick  at  the  rope,  and 
his  friends  pulled  him  out  in  all  haste,  much  to  the 
detriment  of  his  clothes  and  person.  But  he  got  him- 
self into  shape,  took  his  gun  and  a  fresh  torch  and  again 
entered  the  cave.  As  soon  as  he  was  near  enough  to  see 
the  wolf  distinctly  he  took  aim  and  fired.  The  con- 
cussion and  the  smoke  almost  overpowered  him,  but 
the  crowd  outside  hauled  him  forth  into  the  open  air 


Old  Put's  Country  249 

where  he  quickly  revived.  Then  for  a  third  time  he 
entered  the  cave,  where  he  found  the  wolf  dead.  So  he 
seized  her  by  the  ears,  kicked  the  rope,  and  out  he  was 
dragged  with  the  wolf  in  his  wake. 

To  see  Putnam's  home  village  I  had  to  retrace  my 
steps  and  take  another  road — a  more  travelled  way 
than  the  one  I  had  been  pursuing,  yet  closely  akin  in 
its  bordering  of  stone  walls  and  in  its  manner  of  going 
up  and  over  the  big  rolling  hills.  Neither  for  riding  nor 
walking  was  it  at  its  best  just  then;  for  the  town 
scraper  was  at  work  on  it,  scooping  out  a  deep  depres- 
sion on  each  side- and  heaving  up  a  steep,  arched  ridge 
in  the  middle.  The  scraper  left  the  surface  compara- 
tively soft,  and  a  fortnight's  travel  would  be  needed  to 
harden  it.  There  were  occasional  farmhouses,  but  they 
were  as  a  rule  so  far  apart  that  the  country  had  a  touch 
of  loneliness  in  its  aspect.  Once  I  startled  a  pair  of 
fat  woodchucks  in  a  wayside  mowing  lot,  and  they 
scuttled  off  through  the  grass  as  fast  as  they  could  go. 
A  little  farther  on,  a  chipmunk  who  was  trotting  along 
his  own  special  highway,  the  stone  wall,  caught  sight 
of  me  and  whisked  into  a  cranny  among  the  stones. 
Then  he  turned  about  and  watched  me  with  alert-eyed 
intentness. 

Brooklyn  proved  to  be  a  tidy,  mild  little  place  on 
the  undulating  lowlands.  There  were  fine  trees  lining 
the  streets,  and  there  was  a  grassy  common  on  which 
stood  a  slender-spired  wooden  church  built  considerably 
more  than  a  century  ago.  Putnam  lived  opposite  the 


250        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

green,  and  for  a  time  he  kept  his  house  as  a  tavern. 
Some  of  the  elms  now  growing  on  the  street  were 
planted  by  him,  and  he  helped  build  the  church  and 
was  its  bell-ringer.  His  connection  with  the  place 
throws  over  it  a  certain  halo  of  attraction,  and  even 
without  that  the  impression  it  makes  is  decidedly 
pleasing. 

It  is,  however,  suburban  rather  than  rustic,  and  a 
hired  man  with  whom  I  chatted  on  the  outskirts 
explained  the  situation  by  saying,  "The  heft  of  the 
people  have  got  some  money.  But  they  didn't  make  it 
themselves.  It  was  all  left  to  them.  They  mostly 
cultivate  a  little  land,  though  their  doing  so  ain't 
necessary,  and  they  don't  look  to  that  for  any  profit. 
They  wouldn't  get  very  fat  if  they  had  to  farm.  Yes, 
they're  well  fixed,  and  it  doesn't  make  any  difference  to 
them  whether  school  keeps  or  not.  They  sit  around, 
and  eat,  and  ride  out  a  little  and  take  life  easy  gen- 
erally. But  if  you  want  to  see  a  village  where  the  people 
are  all  rich  go  over  to  Pomfret  Hill.  That's  a  summer 
resort,  and  the  folks  come  and  go  a  good  deal  like  wild 
geese.  Some  of  'em  only  stay  a  month.  It's  a  stuck-up 
place.  I  worked  there  one  season,  and  I  got  enough  of 
it.  They  want  you  to  work  for  small  wages  and  are 
just  as  tight  as  if  they  were  poor.  Our  wealthy  people 
ain't  throwing  away  any  money.  Some  of  'em  with  a 
good  big  pile  never  pay  a  bill  if  they  can  help  it.  I 
know  one  man  who's  got  all  his  property  in  his  wife's 


Schoolboys 


Old  Put's  Country  251 

name.  Try  to  collect  from  him  and  he  ain't  worth  a 
cent,  not  one." 

The  field  in  which  Putnam  was  ploughing  when  the 
news  of  the  battle  of  Lexington  was  brought  to  him 
was  some  of  his  outlying  land  two  miles  from  Brooklyn 
up  a  hill  toward  Pomfret,  adjoining  the  farm  of  Cap- 
tain Hubbard.  He  and  the  captain  were  ploughing 
within  call  of  each  other  that  April  day  when  the 
mounted  courier  hastening  along  and  beating  a  drum 
at  intervals,  accosted  them.  Hubbard  went  to  his  home 
which  was  near  by,  to  make  ready  in  an  orderly  man- 
ner to  start  for  the  scene  of  action.  But  Putnam  merely 
unyoked  his  oxen  from  the  plough,  bade  one  of  his  boys 
who  was  with  him  go  home  and  tell  Mrs.  Putnam  where 
he  was  gone,  and  then  mounted  his  horse  and  dashed 
away  toward  Boston. 

"We  had  that  plough  of  Putnam's  on  exhibition 
here  once,"  a  Pomfret  man  told  me;  "and,  by  gosh! 
when  I  saw  it  I  didn't  blame  Putnam  for  leaving  it  in 
the  field.  It  wa'n't  much  but  a  crooked  stick  shod 
with  iron,  and  I'll  be  darned  if  I'd  put  it  in  the  barn  if 
it  was  mine.  But  Putnam  was  clear  grit.  He  was 
always  ready  to  act.  You  know  how  he  risked  his  life 
saving  the  burning  powder  magazine,  and  how  he 
galloped  down  the  stone  steps  to  escape  the  British. 
He  was  just  the  same  at  home.  There  was  one  time  he 
owned  a  very  fine  bull  that  was  ugly  as  sin.  All  the 
neighbors  were  afraid  of  him;  but  once  when  Putnam 
was  going  through  the  pasture  and  the  bull  acted 


252        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

threatening,  he  got  mad  at  the  creature.  He  caught 
him  by  the  tail,  twisted  it  around  a  small  tree  so  he 
could  hold  him  fast,  and  gave  the  animal  a  sound 
drubbing  with  an  ox  goad.  The  bull  bellowed  and  tore 
up  the  ground,  but  couldn't  get  away  till  Putnam  was 
through  with  him,  and  the  experience  made  him  a  good 
deal  more  civilized  for  the  future.  That's  the  kind  of  a 
man  Putnam  was." 

The  house  in  which  the  general  spent  his  last  years, 
and  in  which  he  died,  still  stands.  It  is  well  up  on  a 
lofty  hill  between  Brooklyn  and  Pomfret,  and  though 
it  has  been  enlarged  it  continues  to  be  a  farmhouse  and 
preserves  much  of  its  original  character  both  inside 
and  out. 

When  I  was  nearly  back  to  my  lodging  place  I  stopped 
to  speak  with  a  man  who  was  lounging  in  the  wayside 
grass  baiting  his  cows.  Some  schoolboys  who  hap- 
pened along  at  about  the  same  time  addressed  him 
familiarly  as  "Albert."  They,  however,  showed  no 
intentional  rudeness,  for  they  were  very  nice  little 
fellows,  and  it  was  simply  the  habit  of  the  region.  The 
man  said  he  had  as  large  and  fine  a  farm  as  there  was 
in  town,  and  he  was  soon  telling  me  about  his  stock, 
his  dog,  his  garden  and  all  the  other  things  in  which  he 
took  pride. 

"I  suppose,"  I  said  presently,  changing  to  another 
topic,  "that  your  roads  here  are  too  rough  and  the  hills 
too  steep  for  automobiles." 

"No,"   he   replied,   "they   travel   every   road   we've 


Old  Put's  Country  253 

got,  and  they're  getting  to  be  awful  numerous,  too. 
We  country  people  don't  like  'em  very  much.  They've 
put  too  many  good  horses  out  of  commission.  Some 
of  our  horses  have  got  used  to  'em,  but  others  has  to  go 
crosslots  yet,  and  are  liable  to  tear  you  up  on  top  of  a 
stone  wall,  if  they  meet  one  sudden.  The  people  running 
the  machines  don't  use  much  judgment.  You  notice 
that  square  corner  up  the  road  a  piece.  I've  seen  'em 
comin'  round  there  twenty  miles  an  hour,  and  they 
couldn't  see  ten  feet  ahead. 

"I  own  one  horse  that  ain't  afraid  of  'em  a  particle. 
She  wouldn't  pay  any  attention  if  one  was  to  blow  up 
right  in  front  of  her.  There  never  was  a  gentler  crea- 
ture. One  time  when  I  was  drivin'  her  we  got  tipped 
over  into  a  snowbank,  and  she  stopped  at  once  and  stood 
stock  still.  One  thill  was  on  top  of  her  back,  and  the 
other  between  her  legs.  We  had  to  unhitch  to  get  the 
sleigh  right  side  up.  There's  nothing  slow  about  her, 
if  she  is  gentle.  Once  I  tried  following  an  automobile, 
and  for  three  miles  I  kept  her  close  behind,  right  in 
that  stink,  with  her  nose  rubbing  on  the  shoulder  of  the 
man  in  the  automobile.  When  he  looked  around  I'd 
say,  'Get  out  of  the  way,  or  I'll  run  over  your  old  box!' 

"He  never  spoke  till  he  reached  the  place  he  was 
goin'  to,  and  then  he  turned  and  said,  'You've  got  the 
darndest  horse  I  ever  see.'  ' 

It  seemed  to  me  that  this  man  in  his  encounter  with 
the  automobile  showed  something  the  same  spirit  that 
Putnam  did  in  taming  his  savage  bull;  and  if  the 


254        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

doughty  general  were  alive  in  his  prime  now,  I  wonder 
what  he  would  do  about  these  wild  modern  machines 
that  career  over  the  Pomfret  hills.  But  probably  he 
would  not  stay  in  the  Pomfret  environment  of  today. 
His  was  a  pioneer  temperament,  and  he  would  more 
likely  be  far  away  on  some  remote  frontier. 

NOTES. — It  is  a  hilly  region  on  the  extreme  eastern  borders  of 
the  state.  A  few  important  roads  are  macadam.  As  to  the  others, 
they  are  good,  bad,  and  indifferent,  but  amends  are  made  for  any 
difficulties  of  travel  by  the  varied  charm  of  the  landscape.  About 
half  way  to  Hartford  is  Willimantic,  the  "Thread  City"  and  the 
home  of  Nathan  Hale,  the  Revolutionary  hero. 


XIV 

SHAD    TIME    ON    THE    CONNECTICUT 

IN  colonial  days  shad  were  caught  in  great  numbers 
for  more  than  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  up  the 
river.  Now  they  scarcely  get  a  third  of  that  dis- 
tance, and  comparatively  few  of  them  are  taken  even 
at  the  best  fishing-places.  The  season  includes  all  of 
May  and  the  first  ten  days  of  June,  a  most  delightful 
portion  of  the  year,  and  the  employment  is  picturesque 
and  mildly  adventurous.  It  appeals  to  the  primitive 
instincts  in  man,  and  though  the  diminishing  financial 
returns  make  the  fishermen  grumble,  the  fascination 
of  the  work  entices  them  back  each  year  to  the  pursuit 
of  the  finny  treasures  of  the  stream. 

To  see  the  fishing  at  its  best  I  went  one  June  day  to  a 
village  far  down  toward  the  mouth  of  the  river.  The 
latter  portion  of  the  journey  was  made  in  the  evening 
on  one  of  the  large  steamers  that  ply  between  Hartford 
and  New  York,  and  I  did  not  reach  my  destination 
until  ten  o'clock.  When  I  came  forth  from  the  brightly 
lighted  steamer  out  on  a  pier  there  seemed  to  be  noth- 
ing in  the  surrounding  space  except  the  unfathomable 
blackness  of  the  night.  But  soon  my  eyes  became 
accustomed  to  the  gloom,  and  I  could  dimly  discern 
buildings  and  trees  and  a  clouded  sky. 


256        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

I  had  chatted  with  one  of  the  officers  on  the  boat 
about  the  region  along  shore,  and  he  had  said:  "I'd 
be  afraid  to  ask  for  lodging  after  dark  in  most  of  these 
country  places.  They'd  be  shootin'  me  for  a  chicken 
thief." 

Fortunately  this  waterside  village  had  a  hotel  near 
at  hand  up  a  short,  steep  hill  and  it  had  not  yet  closed 
its  doors.  There  I  found  refuge. 

The  next  morning  I  was  out  early,  curious  to  learn 
the  character  of  the  place  in  which  I  had  stopped. 
There  was  a  little  nucleus  of  stores  and  shops  near  the 
wharves,  and  two  or  three  roads  wandered  away  in 
different  directions.  The  houses  were  tucked  into  all 
sorts  of  nooks  and  perched  on  every  convenient  slope 
and  knoll.  A  short  distance  back  from  the  river  was 
an  abrupt  and  rocky  hill  that  was  for  the  most  part 
covered  with  woods.  Trees  abounded,  too,  in  the  vil- 
lage, and  nature  in  general  seemed  luxuriant  and 
generous. 

There  were  farms  on  the  outskirts,  most  of  which 
had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  Italians  who  labored  on 
them  with  an  industry  and  effectiveness  that  the  local 
Yankees  either  had  not  the  ability  or  ambition  to  rival. 
They  terrace  the  rocky  slopes  and  raise  grapes  and 
peppers.  Some  of  the  grapevines  were  tied  to  stakes  or 
trained  to  grow  on  wires  strung  to  lines  of  posts,  and 
others  are  on  overhead  wires  and  form  extensive  arbors. 
'It's  a  kind  of  Eyetalian  grapes  that  they  raise,"  a 
village  patriarch  explained,  "and  those  grapes  do  well 


Shad  Time  on  the  Connecticut  257 

here.  Oh,  golly,  yes!  I  measured  one  bunch  that  was 
fifteen  inches  long.  But  they  got  a  flavor  I  don't  like, 
and  I  let  'em  alone  though  I  naturally  eat  grapes  by 
the  bushel.  The  Eyetalians  press  out  the  juice  and 
send  it  to  New  York  to  be  made  into  wine.  When 
these  people  go  off  to  spend  the  day  working  in  their 
fields  they  carry  along  a  pitcher  of  wine,  and  some  stale 
bread  that  is  so  tough  they  can  hardly  bite  it,  and  at 
noon  that  wine  and  bread  and  some  of  their  big  green 
peppers  right  off  the  vines  are  their  dinner.  There's 
always  macaroni  in  everything  they  cook.  I  don't  care 
for  that.  I  never  was  fond  of  angleworms.  They  used 
to  raise  a  curious  kind  of  beans  that  they  cooked, 
stems,  stalks,  pods,  and  all.  The  beans  were  so  big 
that  one  of  'em  would  make  a  mouthful.  They  grew 
good  here  until  the  white  fly  raised  the  divil  with  'em. 
Those  flies  wasn't  much  more'n  an  eighth  of  an  inch 
long,  but  there'd  be  half  a  million  on  a  single  bean  vine. 

"The  Eyetalians  do  take  care  of  the  ground  and  there 
ain't  no  waste  nowhere.  Most  of  the  land  they  culti- 
vate is  rocky,  but  it's  nothing  like  as  bad  as  you  find 
on  the  farms  seven  or  eight  miles  down  the  river.  The 
country  there  is  all  ledges  and  only  fit  to  pasture  sheep 
on.  Even  then  I  guess  the  people  have  to  steel  point 
the  sheep's  noses  so  they  can  get  the  grass." 

Automobiles  were  often  passing  on  the  village  roads, 
and  yet  ox-teams  were  also  much  in  evidence.  Two 
yoke  of  oxen  were  apt  to  draw  the  loads  on  the  rougher 
and  steeper  highways.  If  they  stopped  for  any  length 


258        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

of  time  in  the  village  while  the  wagon  was  being  loaded 
or  unloaded  they  would  lie  down  and  calmly  chew  their 
cuds.  I  was  told  that  one  man  who  lived  a  few  miles 
back  in  the  country  was  in  the  habit  of  hitching  seven 
or  eight  yoke  of  oxen  to  his  wagon  when  he  was  bringing 
lumber  to  the  village,  and  it  was  affirmed  that  his 
motive  power  was  economical  because  he  drew  "infernal 
big  loads."  Another  item  of  interest  was  that  his  oxen 
were  as  "poor  as  Death's  crows." 

From  the  hotel  piazza  I  could  see  a  long  stretch  of 
the  river  southward,  placid  and  slow-flowing,  and 
bordered  in  places  by  marshes  or  meadows,  but  more 
often  by  wooded  slopes.  Now  and  then  a  sturdy  tug 
ploughed  its  way  up  or  down  dragging  a  tow  of  coal 
barges,  sometimes  a  little  sloop  with  canvas  spread 
was  wafted  along  the  water  highway,  and  numerous 
motor  boats  chug-chugged  hither  and  thither. 

From  the  piazza.,  too,  I  had  a  good  view  of  a  little 
stream  which  loitered  beneath  some  graceful,  drooping 
elms  and  joined  the  river  just  below.  Its  farther  shore 
was  used  by  the  shad  fishermen  for  a  landing  place,  and 
there  I  visited  with  a  number  of  them  on  the  first  morn- 
ing of  my  sojourn  while  they  were  taking  the  wet  nets 
from  the  sterns  of  their  boats  and  spreading  them  on 
poles  a  little  back  from  the  water  to  dry.  It  required 
two  men  to  a  net.  One  stood  on  each  side,  and  as  they 
shook  out  sticks  and  rubbish  caught  in  the  meshes,  and 
patiently  untangled  the  snarls  their  tongues  were  busy 
gossiping  and  chaffing.  An  elderly  man  whom  the 


Low  tide 


Shad  Time  on  the  Connecticut  259 

others  called  "Harry"  was  perhaps  the  most  com- 
municative in  response  to  my  questions.  He  had  a  full 
gray  beard  and  wore  spectacles  which  slipped  far  down 
on  his  nose.  When  he  walked  he  limped  about  with  a 
cane,  and  he  accounted  for  his  lameness  by  saying  that 
the  knuckle  on  his  knee  was  broken. 

"I'm  seventy-six  years  old,"  he  informed  me,  "and 
the  combined  ages  of  me  and  my  partner  are  one 
hundred  and  fifty-four.  I  guess  there  ain't  any  shad 
crew  on  the  river  any  older.  Two  men  is  the  crew  for 
a  rowboat.  When  they  go  out  to  fish  they  take  along  a 
dragnet  that  is  from  sixty  to  ninety  rods  long.  The 
nets  cost  forty  dollars  or  more  apiece  and  usually  only 
last  one  season.  We  have  this  job  of  cleaning  and  dry- 
ing 'em  every  morning.  They  scrape  along  on  the 
bottom,  and  you'd  be  surprised  to  see  the  stuff  we  bring 
in.  There's  everything  from  a  toothpick  up  to  a  saw- 
mill log,  and  there's  clam  shells  and  cinders  and  tin 
cans,  and  one  feller  got  a  melodeon,  or  pieces  of  it,  in 
his  net.  That  was  after  a  big  rain  which  washed  away 
some  dams  on  a  stream  that  flows  into  the  river  above 
here.  It  took  buildings  and  everything  in  its  wake  as 
clean  as  a  whistle. 

"We  only  go  out  fishing  at  night.  The  shad  would 
see  the  net  in  the  daytime  and  go  round  it  like  sheep 
over  a  fence.  When  we  slip  the  net  off  into  the  water 
we  fasten  a  tub  with  a  lantern  in  it  to  the  outer  end, 
and  the  boat  is  at  the  other  end.  All  night  we  drift 
with  the  tide.  If  the  tide  is  running  up  we  go  down 


260        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

below  half  a  mile  and  drop  our  nets.  If  the  tide  is 
running  out  we  start  right  off  the  dock,  and  during  the 
night  the  current  and  tide  together  carry  us  nearly  two 
miles  downstream.  It's  time  to  go  out  just  as  soon  as 
a  shade  of  darkness  strikes  the  water.  We  take  along 
a  jug  of  drinking  water,  and  we  carry  a  lunch  that  we  eat 
about  midnight.  Sometimes  the  wind  blows  like  the 
mischief  and  makes  hard  work  for  us,  but  on  quiet 
nights  there's  not  much  to  do  only  to  set  in  the  boat 
and  chin  with  one  another  and  swap  lies.  We  have  to 
pick  up  our  net  if  we  see  a  power  boat  or  a  steamer 
comin'  in  our  direction.  They  have  the  right  to  the 
channel,  and  some  cap'ns  and  pilots  will  go  right 
through  you,  but  there's  others  who  will  slow  down. 
A  power  boat  cut  our  net  in  two  last  night.  It  was 
running  without  lights,  and  if  we  can  find  out  who  the 
feller  in  that  boat  was  we'll  fix  him.  We'll  make  a 
complaint  and  his  license  will  be  taken  away. 

"Those  power  boats  are  a  blame  nuisance,  and  the 
fellers  who  run  'em  are  the  biggest  set  of  ignoramuses 
I've  ever  seen.  They're  darn  fools,  to  speak  politely 
without  slandering  'em.  Here's  one  of  them  power 
boats  now  goin'  like  blazes.  It's  got  a  funny-shaped 
prow.  Ha,  ha!  see  the  shovel-nose.  He's  a  noisy  one. 

"Some  fishermen  load  their  boats  with  rocks,  and  if 
a  power  boat  acts  mean  they  put  out  their  lights  and 
heave  the  rocks  at  it. 

"On  Saturdays  there's  as  many  as  three  hundred 
men  goin'  down  in  power  boats  to  Saybrook.  They'll 


Shad  Time  on  the  Connecticut  261 

tell  you  they're  goin'  to  fish  and  get  clams,  but  really 
they're  goin'  to  have  a  Sunday  drunk.  There  are 
clerks  and  mill-hands  and  farmers  from  all  along  up  the 
river  as  far  north  as  Hartford.  Others  are  sporting 
men  who  have  big  boats  and  make  a  great  splurge. 
Sunday  they  go  back  strung  along  anywhere  from 
three  in  the  afternoon  to  eleven  at  night,  and  they're 
either  makin'  enough  noise  to  scare  the  devil  to  death, 
or  else  they're  very  quiet.  Those  that  are  quiet  have 
got  their  hides  full. 

"We  quit  fishing  about  four  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
We  know  it's  no  use  after  daybreak,  and  it  ain't  much 
use  before.  Me'n'  my  partner  only  got  three  shad  last 
night.  When  we  come  in  with  our  boat  we  go  home  to 
bed.  If  I  git  four  hours  sleep  I'm  satisfied.  I  used  to 
be  a  sailor,  and  I  got  the  habit  of  having  a  little  nap  in 
the  afternoon.  With  the  help  of  that  nap  it  didn't 
bother  me  any  to  stay  up  all  night.  You'll  find  that's 
the  way  with  all  the  old  fellers  who've  been  to  sea." 

"  I  don't  feel  as  if  I'd  slept  any  for  a  week,"  one  of  the 
younger  men  observed.  He  was  puffing  with  sad-eyed 
weariness  at  a  cigaret.  Several  empty  beer  bottles  lay 
in  the  bottom  of  his  boat.  He  took  them  out  and  said: 
"Somebody  put  those  in  there.  Supposing  my  wife 
came  here  and  see  them!  There'd  be  trouble  right 
away,  wouldn't  there,  Grumpy?" 

"That's  bloody  mean,  Dan,  to  put  bottles  in  your 
boat,"  Grumpy  commented.  "It's  as  much  as  to  say 
you  drink." 


262        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

"Well,"  Dan  resumed,  "a  little  sloop  lay  down  at 
the  wharf  here  last  night.  It  was  loaded  with  clams, 
and  some  of  us  from  the  village  was  in  it  till  one  o'clock 
eatin'  raw  clams  and  drinkin'  beer.  We  was  cussed 
fools.  I  started  with  three  bottles  of  beer  in  front  of 
me  and  one  in  my  hand,  and  I  emptied  'em  all.  When 
I  got  home  I  didn't  dare  go  in  the  house.  So  I  lay  down 
in  the  woodshed  on  some  shavings.  Early  in  the  morn- 
ing I  slipped  away,  and  I  haven't  been  back  yet.  I 
don't  know  whether  my  wife  will  give  me  any  break- 
fast or  not.  If  she  won't  I'll  go  to  the  hotel  and  buy  a 
sandwich." 

I  asked  Grumpy  how  he  got  his  nickname. 

"When  I  was  a  kid,"  he  said,  "there  was  an  old  man 
who  used  to  trot  me  on  his  knee  and  give  me  candy  and 
sing  songs  to  me.  He  was  always  makin'  rhymes,  and 
one  of  his  rhymes  that  I  was  very  fond  of  was  this: 

"Old  Grumbo  Chaff  lived  in  the  wood; 
He  e't  all  the  boys  and  girls  he  could. 
Some  he  greased  and  swallowed  whole, 
And  he  lived  so  long  he  swallowed  the  world. 

"That's  where  I  got  my  nickname.  It  should  be 
Grumbo,  but  people  call  me  Grump  or  Grumpy." 

"Your  boat  didn't  come  in  when  the  others  did  this 
morning,"  Harry  remarked. 

"No,"  Grumpy  responded,  "our  net  caught  on  a 
thundering  big  stump.  We  got  hung  up  and  had  to 


Shad  Time  on  the  Connecticut  263 

wait  till  the  tide  turned.  While  we  were  waiting  I 
went  on  shore  and  slept  in  the  mud  under  the  root  of 
a  tree." 

"Not  all  of  us  use  drag  nets,"  Harry  said  to  me. 
"Some  tie  bricks  on  along  the  bottom  of  the  net  so  the 
tide  and  current  won't  carry  it  along.  There's  one 
man  puts  in  a  net  that  way  just  across  the  river,  and 
he's  got  a  tent  on  the  shore.  He  sits  in  the  tent  at 
night  and  rests  a  little  and  peeks  out  once  in  a  while 
so  if  any  steamboat  or  motor  boat  is  coming  he  can  go 
and  pick  up  the  net." 

"Shad  fishing  is  a  hard  life  any  way  you're  a  min'  to 
fix  it,"  Grumpy  declared.  "You  want  to  wear  your 
oldest  clothes  because  it'll  spoil  'em,  and  you  want  lots 
of  'em  because  the  nights  are  cold.  However,  there's 
money  in  fishing  if  you  get  a  good  ketch." 

Every  now  and  then  the  men  would  come  across  a 
snarl  in  their  nets  that  they  called  a  twizzle,  and  often 
a  good  deal  of  time  and  patience  were  required  to  pick 
and  shake  it  out.  "All  sorts  of  fish  make  twizzles," 
Dan  said.  "Sometimes  a  little  alewife  will  make  one 
of  the  meanest  sort." 

During  the  morning  rowboats  were  arriving  from 
points  up  and  down  the  river  bringing  shad  to  a  neigh- 
boring dock,  and  each  new  arrival  was  sure  to  be  greeted 
with  the  query,  "How'd  they  run  this  time?"  None 
of  the  fishermen  had  caught  enough  to  brag  about. 

"It's  like  this,"  one  man  explained;  "the  shad  go  in 
shoals  together,  and  if  one  boat  has  a  good  ketch  they 


264        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

all  do.  I  call  it  a  poor  season.  The  boats  come  in  with 
ten  or  twelve  shad.  That's  about  a  third  less  than  last 
year.  We  never  do  as  well  in  a  Democratic  adminis- 
tration. There  was  a  poor  run  of  shad  when  Cleveland 
was  president,  same  as  there  is  now  that  Wilson  is  in. 
It  seems  like  a  put  up  job." 

The  men  in  the  boats  tossed  the  shad  up  into  a  large 
shallow  box  when  they  were  washed,  and  afterward 
they  were  packed  in  ice  to  send  away.  While  this  work 
was  going  forward  a  villager  came  and  wanted  to  buy 
a  "good  "shad. 

Harry  turned  to  me  and  remarked:  "I  ain't  seen  a 
decent  shad  this  morning.  Half  of  'em  have  thrown 
their  spawn,  and  after  that  they're  as  rank  as  sow  pig 
meat.  But  they  sell  good  to  the  greenhorns  in  the  cities. 
When  I  go  past  a  house  where  they're  cookin'  shad  I 
can  tell  by  the  smell  whether  it's  spawned.  If  they're 
cookin'  eels  I  hold  my  nose  till  I  get  by.  Yes,  eels  are 
pretty  bad  to  my  smeller.  People  say  they  are  good 
eatin',  but  they  ain't  good  for  me.  As  for  shad,  you 
won't  ketch  no  fisherman  to  eat  even  a  roe  shad,  not 
unless  it's  salted.  Give  me  a  good  buck  shad  every 
time.  Say,  you  may  laugh  at  me,  but  let  me  tell  you 
how  to  cook  a  shad  right.  First  split  him  open.  Some 
take  the  backbone  out,  but  that  cuts  off  too  many 
fine  bones.  Don't  forgit  to  salt  and  pepper  him.  Then 
take  a  frying  pan  and  cover  the  bottom  with  pork 
sliced  thin.  Lay  your  fish  onto  the  pork  and  put  more 
pork  on  top  of  him.  You  need  a  few  spoonfuls  of  water 


Shad  Time  on  the  Connecticut  265 

in  the  pan  so  he  won't  stick  on.  Cover  the  pan  up  and 
shove  it  in  the  oven.  In  half  an  hour  pour  on  a  little 
cream  and  leave  the  pan  in  the  oven  with  the  cover  off. 
When  the  fish  is  nicely  browned  add  more  water  and 
ten  minutes  later  take  him  out  and  eat  him,  and  if  you 
don't  say  that's  the  best  shad  you  ever  e't  tell  me  I 
don't  know  how  to  cook.  It'll  make  your  mouth 
water." 

In  the  afternoon  I  sat  on  the  hotel  piazza  looking  off 
over  the  river.  A  door  at  the  far  end  of  the  piazza  gave 
entrance  to  an  odorous  bar-room  where  the  fishermen 
and  others  did  much  guzzling  and  loud  talking,  and 
presently  a  weazened  little  old  man  came  forth,  stopped 
before  me,  and  regarded  me  quizzically.  "Ain't  you  a 
lawyer?"  he  asked. 

When  I  told  him  I  was  not  he  slapped  me  on  the 
shoulder  and  said:  "I'm  glad  of  it.  There's  too  many 
of  'em.  I  never  saw  you  before,  and  I  may  never  see 
you  again,  but  there's  worse  fellers  than  you  be,  I'll 
bet.  One  of  our  village  girls  married  a  Southern  man, 
and  they  come  here  to  visit  after  a  year  or  two.  We'd 
understood  he  was  a  poor  man,  but  they  seemed  to  be 
prosperin'  and  when  we  asked  her  about  it  she  said, 
'We're  livin'  on  other  folks'  quarrellin'  and  gettin' 
along  very  well.'  He  was  a  lawyer,  don't  you  see? 
There  was  an  Irishwoman  here  who  always  used  to 
speak  of  him  in  her  brogue  as  a  'liar;'  and  she  wasn't 
so  very  far  wrong  either,  hey?  That's  what  a  lawyer 
is,  most  generally.  Well,  I've  been  in  there  (he  pointed 


266        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

with  his  thumb  toward  the  bar-room),  and  I'm  a  little 
bit  exhilarated,  but  that's  straight  what  I  said  about 
the  lawyers.  Shake  hands.  Good-by." 

Shortly  afterward  Harry  joined  me  and  sat  down  to 
visit.  He  was  too  old  to  have  regular  employment, 
but  he  did  odd  jobs  in  the  village  and  gravitated  around 
in  the  vicinity  of  the  bar-room.  While  we  talked  he 
chewed,  and  at  regular  intervals  he  got  up  and  hobbled 
with  his  cane  to  the  edge  of  the  piazza,  to  spit. 

"I've  lived  alone  ever  since  my  wife  died  seven  years 
ago,"  he  said.  "My  children  have  been  urgin'  me  to 
come  and  live  with  them,  but  I  don't  see  it  that  way. 
For  instance,  one  of  'em  lives  in  New  Haven,  and  I'd 
as  lief  be  in  Tophet  as  in  the  city.  There's  too  much 
noise  and  too  much  stink.  I  want  to  be  among  the 
trees  where  there's  birds.  I  want  to  live  as  I  want  to 
live  and  cook  to  suit  myself. 

"The  birds  and  the  other  little  wild  animals  git  very 
tame  around  my  place.  The  sparrows — good  Lord! 
they  come  right  into  the  house.  Some  robins  build  in 
the  grapevine  at  my  back  door.  If  I  put  my  hand  in 
their  nest  to  feel  whether  there's  eggs  or  young  birds  in 
it  the  old  robins  scold  me,  but  I  tell  'em,  'I  ain't  goin' 
to  hurt  you.' 

"Two  little  birds  that  sing  like  katydids  comes  every 
year  'bout  the  first  of  July  and  set  on  the  clothesline 
and  sing  to  me.  They're  kind  of  a  bronze  color  and 
ain't  much  bigger'n  my  thumb.  I  can  hold  out  a  plate 
with  cracker  crumbs  on  it  and  they'll  eat  off  it. 


Comparing  fish 


Shad  Time  on  the  Connecticut  267 

"I've  got  an  educated  cat  that  I  raised  from  a  kitten. 
He  is  maltese  and  white.  I  say,  'Chub,  you  rascal! 
you  do  so  and  so;'  and  he  does  it.  If  I  tell  him  to  say 
his  prayers  he'll  set  right  up  on  his  stern  and  drop  his 
paws  and  his  head  down.  When  he  asks  for  grub  he 
sets  up  and  makes  his  paws  go.  A  woman  school  teacher 
was  callin'  on  me  one  day  and  tellin'  that  animals  had 
got  no  reason.  We  had  quite  an  argument.  Chub 
lay  on  the  grass  near  by,  and  after  a  while  I  called  to 
him  and  said,  "Walk  up  and  shake  hands  with  the 
lady.' 

"He  came  to  her  and  shoved  out  his  paw  the  first 
thing,  and  she  said,  'I  give  in.' 

"Once  I  showed  Chub  the  hole  of  a  ground  mole  in 
a  neighbor's  garden  and  says,  'Now  you  ketch  that 
ground  mole,'  and  he  stayed  there  until  he  caught  it. 
He  didn't  eat  it.  Moles  are  poison  to  a  cat,  and  I  don't 
know  of  any  animal  that'll  eat  'em. 

"Last  night,  after  I  got  home  from  fishing,  I  hadn't 
been  asleep  long  when  Chub  woke  me  up.  He  and 
another  cat  were  in  the  yard  makin'  a  great  noise.  I 
went  out  to  see  what  was  the  matter,  and  there  was 
Chub  settin'  up  cufHn'  the  other  cat's  ears.  He  knocked 
him  galley  west.  Then  I  cuffed  Chub's  ears  and  sent 
him  in  the  house. 

"I  c'n  remember  things  when  I  was  a  kid  only  four 
years  old.  It  was  at  that  age  I  had  the  whooping 
cough,  and  I  had  it  terribly,  I  tell  you!  There  was  a 
brook  near  the  house, — a  regular  trout  brook,  shallow 


268        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

and  gravelly.  The  suckers  would  foller  up  it  to  git  to 
a  still  spot  to  lay  their  spawn,  and  I  used  to  wade  in 
after  'em.  That  spring  when  I  was  coughin'  I  ketched 
a  big  sucker  in  the  brook — just  grabbed  him.  I  got 
wet  from  head  to  foot,  but  I  was  goin'  to  git  that 
sucker,  whether  or  no.  I  hugged  him  right  up  in  my 
arms,  and  I  can  see  that  sucker's  face  now  lookin'  up 
into  mine.  He  was  a  big  one — oh,  golly  yes! — must 
have  weighed  two  pound. 

"But  as  I  was  comin'  out  of  the  water  with  him  my 
sister  ketched  me,  and  then  I  certainly  was  in  a  pickle. 
She  called  me  a  mushrat  and  give  me  a  slammin'.  I 
don't  know  what  become  of  the  sucker,  but  I  know  I 
got  the  lickin',  and  in  less'n  an  hour  I  was  in  that  brook 
again.  Now  they  won't  let  a  child  with  the  whooping 
cough  git  his  feet  wet  or  anything  else.  But  I  guess  I 
was  in  that  brook  every  day  until  finally  they  tied  me 
up  in  the  house. 

"A  few  years  ago  a  boy  not  much  older'n  I  was  then 
made  quite  a  business  ketchin'  suckers  in  that  brook. 
He'd  wade  in  and  throw  'em  out.  They're  a  lazy  sort 
of  fish  anyway.  I've  seen  him  line  the  bank  with  'em. 
He  sold  what  he  could,  and  left  the  rest  on  the  bank  to 
stink.  At  last  the  neighbors  stopped  him.  They  had 
to.  They  couldn't  stand  it. 

"My  father  was  what  was  called  a  master  of  the 
square  and  compass.  He  could  do  all  joiner  work,  and 
I  learned  his  trade.  I  was  quick  of  eye  and  quick  of 
hand,  but  up  to  the  time  I  was  twenty  years  old  ninety- 


Shad  Time  on  the  Connecticut  269 

six  pounds  was  the  most  I'd  ever  weighed  in  my  life. 
They  used  to  call  me  the  Runt;  and  yet  later  I  got  to 
be  the  biggest  of  the  family.  Yes,  there  was  fourteen 
of  us  children,  and  I  was  the  largest  of  the  lot.  When 
I  was  a  young  man  I  wore  my  hair  long — just  had  a 
notion  to  wear  it  that  way,  but  one  day  an  older  brother 
and  another  feller  got  me  down  and  tied  me  and 
sheared  my  hair  all  off.  My  godfrey!  They  didn't 
leave  it  an  inch  long. 

"That  made  me  a  little  mad,  and  I  swore  I  wouldn't 
have  my  hair  cut  again  by  them  nor  nobody  else  for 
five  years.  Then  I  slid  out  and  went  to  New  London, 
and  I  wasn't  there  but  a  few  days  when  I  got  a  chance 
to  go  to  sea.  I  was  a  sailor  from  that  time  on  until  I 
was  nearly  forty.  My  longest  voyage  was  up  the 
Amazon  after  nuts,  rubber,  and  wild  animals.  I  kept 
out  of  reach  of  them  animals.  But  I  got  a  little  monkey 
for  myself.  They  had  the  smallest  monkeys  there  I 
ever  see.  Mine  wa'n't  half  the  size  of  a  cat.  I  caught 
him  by  boring  a  hole  in  a  box  just  big  enough  for  him 
to  git  his  hand  through  and  putting  a  lump  of  sugar 
inside.  That's  the  way  to  ketch  monkeys.  They  grab 
the  sugar  and  then  can't  draw  their  hand  out,  but  they 
won't  never  let  go  of  it.  I  had  my  monkey  with  me 
for  two  or  three  trips.  Then  I  sold  him.  It  got  to  be 
too  much  of  a  nuisance  waiting  on  him. 

"After  I'd  been  to  sea  five  years  I  landed  in  New 
York,  and  I  went  into  a  barber  shop  and  got  sheared 
and  shampooed.  It  was  a  great  fashion  then  among 


270       Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

all  sailors  to  wear  their  hair  long  and  keep  it  rolled  up 
under  their  caps.  Mine  never  bothered  me  only  once 
in  a  while  when  it  got  full  of  water.  The  barber  un- 
rolled my  hair  and  it  hung  down  to  the  small  of  my 
back.  He  was  a  wigmaker,  and  he  told  me  he'd  give 
two  dollars  for  it  and  throw  in  a  new  collar  and  a 
necktie.  Says  I,  'Git  at  it,  mister;'  and  I  didn't  let 
it  grow  long  again. 

"Twenty  years  ago  we  couldn't  have  set  here  half 
an  hour  lookin'  down  on  the  river  without  seein'  the 
sturgeon  leap.  They'd  leap  clean  out  of  the  water, 
gosh,  yes!  and  fall  back  on  it — spat!  But  they're 
'bout  gone  now.  The  biggest  one  I  ever  see  was 
ketched  right  across  the  river  here.  My  Lord!  he 
measured  sixteen  feet  long  and  weighed  five  hundred 
or  more.  Well,  sir,  that  was  close  to  sixty  years  ago. 
My  father  bought  a  chunk  of  it — paid  three  cents  a 
pound.  I  tasted  it,  and  I  know  I've  never  wanted  any 
sturgeon  since.  They're  too  oily  for  me. 

"We  used  to  have  salmon  in  the  river,  but  I  ain't 
seen  any  lately.  They  don't  like  this  water  now.  It's 
too  slimy  and  dirty  and  foul,  but  there  was  a  time  when 
it  was  as  nice,  sweet  water  as  you'd  want  to  drink. 
Whaleships  would  come  up  here  to  git  water  to  carry 
to  sea.  Now  they  might  fill  their  oil  casks  if  they  dis- 
tilled it  a  little.  The  power  boats  make  filth,  and  so  do 
the  mills.  Some  of  the  best  trout  streams  in  the  state 
have  been  spoiled  by  drainage  from  shops  built  along  side. 
Trout  don't  mind  sawmills,  but  they  can't  stand  oil. 


Shad  Time  on  the  Connecticut  271 

"Along  'bout  1880  the  government  stocked  the  river 
with  salmon  and  they  got  to  be  quite  plenty.  We'd 
ketch  'em  every  night  in  our  hauling  seines,  and  people 
were  crazy  for  'em.  They'd  pay  dollar  and  a  quarter 
a  pound  for  those  caught  the  first  of  the  season,  and 
the  price  never  went  below  forty  cents.  I've  had  my 
dinner,  but  I  could  eat  a  good  big  hunk  of  salmon  right 
now.  Shad  can't  commence  the  same  year  with  it. 

"I  love  to  ketch  black  bass.  Usually  we  troll  for 
'em.  When  you  hook  one  he'll  go  to  the  bottom  and 
then  come  up  and  jump  out  of  the  water.  If  he  gits 
any  slack  line  he'll  jerk  the  hook  out.  Oh,  they're 
spunky  and  fight  like  a  steer.  Some  fellers  caught  a 
striped  bass  here  in  a  seine  net  once  that  weighed  ninety 
pounds,  and  they  stuffed  pebbles  down  his  throat  until 
they  made  him  weigh  a  hundred. 

"There  used  to  be  three  hundred  shad-hauling  seines 
between  here  and  Saybrook  Bar.  Now  I  don't  know 
of  one.  A  seine  would  reach  clear  across  the  river. 
The  fishermen  wouldn't  go  out  without  ketchin'  one 
hundred  and  fifty  or  two  hundred  shad  in  them  days. 
Once  I  see  sixteen  hundred  drawn  out.  In  that  haul 
there  was  one  shad  which  weighed  nine  and  a  half 
pounds.  That's  'bout  as  large  as  they  grow.  I've 
heard  of  'em  weighin'  twelve  pounds,  but  darned  if  I 
believe  it." 

About  this  time  Grumpy  came  loitering  to  where  we 
sat  on  the  piazza.  "  Is  it  hot  this  afternoon  ? "  he  asked ; 
and  when  we  replied  in  the  affirmative  he  said,  "That's 


272       Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

the  way  I  feel,  but  I  didn't  know  but  'twas  the  gin 
that's  in  me." 

"I  can  hear  a  quail  callin',"  Harry  remarked.  "We 
don't  have  them  very  plenty  now.  Folks  tell  'bout 
hard  winters  and  foxes,  but  that's  not  what  has 
cleaned  'em  out.  There's  too  many  good  guns  and  too 
many  good  dogs.  I  can  remember  when  they'd  come 
right  into  our  yards  and  feed  with  the  chickens  and 
hens." 

"A  little  quail  is  lively  and  clever  just  as  soon  as  he's 
hatched,"  Grumpy  affirmed.  "He'll  run  off  with  a 
shuck  on  his  tail,  and  if  you  undertake  to  reach  for  him 
he'll  hide  before  you  can  get  him." 

"I  saw  a  loon  this  morning,"  Harry  said.  "Every 
once  in  a  while  we  ketch  one  that  has  got  into  our  nets 
diving." 

"You  know  when  you  get  one  all  right,"  Grumpy 
commented.  "He'll  tell  you  all  about  it.  They  holler 
so  you  can  hear  'em  forty  miles." 

"Oh!  they  got  an  awful  scream  in  'em,"  Harry 
agreed.  "I  used  to  could  mimic  'em.  When  we  ketch 
one  we  make  him  fast  in  the  boat  and  bring  him  on 
shore  to  have  some  fun.  You  have  to  be  careful  hand- 
ling 'em.  They  got  a  bill  as  sharp  as  a  needle.  If  they 
hit  you  they  leave  a  sore  every  time.  One  night  an- 
other feller  and  me  took  a  loon  to  the  upper  landing 
where  there  was  a  young  ladies'  seminary.  We  had  a 
muffler  on  him,  but  when  we  was  on  the  green  right  in 
front  of  the  school  we  slipped  it  off.  He  fetched  'bout 


Shad  Time  on  the  Connecticut  273 

three  yells,  and  if  we  didn't  see  ghosts  up  at  them  win- 
dows don't  ask  any  questions!" 

"I  put  a  loon  in  old  Gus  Farley's  fish  box  once," 
Grumpy  said.  "By  and  by  Gus  come  to  put  his  shad 
in  the  box,  and  as  soon  as  he  lifted  the  cover  the  loon 
commenced  to  holler,  and  Gus  run.  Gee  whiz!  you 
bet  he  did.  Most  any  one  would  to  hear  that  noise 
right  in  their  face. 

"Snapping  turtles  are  another  thing  that  make  some 
excitement  for  us.  We  caught  a  big  one  night  before 
last.  He'd  torn  two  or  three  holes  in  the  net  big  enough 
to  drive  a  horse  and  wagon  through  before  we  got  him 
into  the  boat.  His  head  was  as  large  as  my  two  fists, 
and  he  must  have  weighed  thirty  or  forty  pounds.  We 
was  soon  sorry  that  we  had  him.  He  was  raisin'  the 
dickens  in  the  boat,  and  after  a  while  he  got  hold  of  the 
toe  of  my  shoe.  How  that  son  of  a  gun  did  hang!  I 
couldn't  get  loose  until  I  run  my  jackknife  into  his  jaw. 
I  killed  him  and  threw  him  overboard." 

"You  ought  to  have  harnessed  him  and  then  he'd 
have  stayed  still,"  Harry  said.  "Put  a  cord  through 
his  mouth  and  tie  it  under  his  tail  and  you've  got  him. 
You  could  have  sold  him  for  good  money.  Turtles  are 
fine  eating.  They  got  chicken  meat  and  veal  and  all 
kinds  of  meat  in  'em. 

"Most  every  spring  I  find  some  of  their  eggs.  They 
dig  a  hole  a  few  inches  deep  in  dry  sand  and  lay  thirty 
or  forty  eggs  that  they  leave  for  the  heat  of  the  sun  to 
hatch.  The  skunks  dig  the  eggs  out  and  eat  'em 


274        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

quicker'n  powder.  When  the  little  turtles  hatch  they're 
'bout  as  big  as  a  silver  half  dollar  and  blind  as  a  bat. 
Their  eyes  ain't  open  more'n  a  kitten's,  but  they  know 
the  way  to  the  water  and  start  for  it  right  off.  The 
turtles  crawl  into  spring  holes  and  spend  the  winter 
'bout  a  foot  down  in  the  mud,  and  fellers  hunt  for  'em 
and  pull  'em  out  with  something  like  a  meathook 
fastened  to  a  six  foot  handle.  I  caught  nine  that  way 
once  out  of  one  spring  hole,  and  I  guess  the  smallest 
would  weigh  fifteen  pounds." 

"I  think  a  carp  struck  our  net  last  night,"  Grumpy 
observed.  "Anyhow  it  made  a  thundering  splash.  I 
don't  like  the  rascals." 

"There's  some  terrible  big  ones  in  the  river  here," 
Harry  commented.  "They're  a  specie  of  sucker,  and 
darn  coarse  grain  and  darn  coarse  tastin'.  Oh!  they're 
miserable  eatin',  but  the  Jews  and  Germans  go  for  'em 
like  sin.  I  just  as  soon  eat  a  piece  of  mud.  They  say 
the  way  to  do  with  a  carp  is  to  dress  it  all  up  in  good 
shape  and  stuff  it  with  shavings  and  cook  it;  then 
throw  away  the  carp  and  eat  the  shavings." 

"They're  a  handsome  fish  just  the  same,"  Grumpy 
affirmed,  "and  they  got  a  back  on  'em  like  an  ox.  I 
saw  one  near  my  boat  the  other  day  that  I  should  say 
weighed  twenty-five  pounds.  He  had  his  nose  down 
and  was  rooting  right  along  in  the  mud  like  a  pig  in  a 
manure  pile.  The  water  was  shallow  and  I  reached 
down  to  ketch  him.  But  he  gave  a  plunge  that  very 
near  upset  the  boat.  You  might  as  well  attempt  to 


Shad  time  on  the  Connecticut 


Shad  Time  on  the  Connecticut  275 

hold  a  horse  as  to  hold  a  carp  when  he  gets  started. 
However,  if  I'd  got  my  two  hands  under  him  I'd  have 
h'isted  him  out  all  right.  The  last  one  we  caught  I  sold 
to  a  bear  of  a  Jew  who  lives  across  the  river.  He  was 
bound  to  have  it.  'But  I  got  no  money  today,'  he 
said.  'I  pay  you  Saturday.' 

"  'If  you  don't  I'll  send  Bill  Russell,  the  sheriff  after 
you,'  I  told  him. 

"How  a  carp  will  thump  with  his  tail  after  you  get 
him  in  your  boat!  If  there's  a  little  water  in  the  bottom 
you'll  think  it's  raining  for  a  while.  One  night  me'n' 
Hen,  my  partner,  was  on  the  spawning  ground  where  it 
was  against  the  law  to  be,  and  we  caught  a  carp.  He 
was  a  monster,  and  as  soon  as  his  tail  got  goin'  you 
could  hear  him  a  mile.  That  wouldn't  do,  for  we  can't 
never  tell  when  the  fish  officers  will  come  around.  Hen 
stepped  on  the  carp  to  keep  him  still  and  almost  got 
tipped  overboard.  Then  we  grabbed  him  and  shoved 
him  into  the  cubby  at  the  bow.  I  thought  he'd  pound 
it  to  pieces,  but  he  didn't  make  so  much  noise.  We  put 
out  three  ten-rod  nets  that  night  and  got  more  than 
two  hundred  shad.  They  made  such  a  load  that  the 
sides  of  the  boat  wasn't  two  inches  out  of  water.  We 
use  pieces  of  old  last  year's  net  when  we  go  fishin'  up 
the  cove  where  we're  not  supposed  to  go,  so  even  if  the 
fish  warden  ketches  us  and  takes  'em  away  we  wouldn't 
feel  very  bad." 

"Well,"  Harry  said,  "the  shad  season  will  soon  end, 
but  I'm  goin'  to  ketch  enough  afterward  to  salt  down 


276        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

half  a  barrel  for  my  own  use.  The  fishermen  here,  too, 
always  make  a  drift  on  the  third  of  July  to  git  a  shad 
to  eat  on  the  Fourth.  A  year  ago  I  told  the  fish  warden 
I  was  goin'  to  ketch  a  Fourth  of  July  shad,  and  he  said, 
"Well,  by  ginger!  if  one  was  hung  on  my  door  there'd 
be  money  comin'  for  it  sometime.' 

"He  got  his  shad.  I've  seen  'em  caught  as  late  as 
the  seventh  of  September,  but  they  was  hard  lookin' 
subjects.  After  the  shad  have  spawned  they  return 
to  the  sea.  We  ketch  'em  on  the  back  side  of  the  net 
now.  Farther  down  the  river  lots  of  fish  are  caught 
in  pounds  and  fike  nets.  A  law  was  passed  against 
such  fishing  ten  years  ago,  but  soon  afterward  it  was 
modified  to  allow  the  fishermen  to  wear  out  their  nets, 
and  those  nets  ain't  worn  out  yet.  They're  like  the 
Irishman's  knife — it  had  had  six  new  blades  and  two 
new  handles,  but  he  said  it  was  the  same  knife  his 
father  used.  The  mesh  of  the  nets  is  small,  and  they 
ketch  lots  of  little  shad  six  or  eight  inches  long  goin' 
down  the  river  in  the  fall.  Those  little  shad  ain't  good 
for  anything  but  mackerel  bait.  It's  a  wonder  that  any 
shad  git  up  here  considering  all  the  nets  there  are  in 
the  river  down  below,  but  they're  sly  and  slippery,  and 
if  it  wasn't  for  the  pounds  and  fikes  and  the  fishing  on 
the  spawning  grounds  there'd  be  as  many  as  ever. 

"The  biggest  mystery  we  have  is  little  eels  the  length 
of  your  finger.  For  about  a  week  the  last  of  May  there's 
a  strip  of  'em  four  or  five  feet  wide  going  up  the  river 
near  the  shore  on  each  side,  and  you  can't  turn  'em 


Shad  Time  on  the  Connecticut  277 

down.  They  go  along  just  as  thick  as  they  can  swim, 
almost,  and  millions  of  them  little  fellers  go  by  in  a 
day.  Every  kind  of  fish  swallow  'em.  If  they  all 
matured  you  could  walk  across  the  river  on  eels." 

One  day  I  went  back  inland  a  few  miles  through  the 
woods  to  the  little  manufacturing  village  of  Moodus. 
It  is  in  a  hilly  region  which  furnishes  excellent  water- 
power,  and  a  dozen  small  factories  dotted  the  irregular 
valleys.  The  mills  are  always  running,  and  good  times 
or  bad  times  make  no  difference.  Most  of  their  owners 
live  in  the  place,  and  chief  among  them  is  a  man  of 
whom  a  local  resident  said:  "He  wears  a  straw  hat 
winter  and  summer.  Sometimes,  after  a  good  nice 
shower,  he'll  take  off  his  shoes  and  stockings  and  walk 
around.  Well,  I  tell  you  it's  healthy  to  get  the  feet 
aired  out.  If  his  help  ask  for  more  pay  he'll  say: 
'Look  how  poor  I  am.  I  have  to  go  barefoot  same  as 
you.'  But  he's  worth  at  least  half  a  million,  and  he 
ain't  got  chick  nor  child  to  spend  his  money.  That 
man  ain't  goin'  to  the  poorhouse  very  soon." 

My  visit  to  Moodus  was  made  largely  because  of  a 
peculiar  fame  it  has  for  noises.  Indeed,  its  original 
Indian  name  was  Mackinmoodus,  which  means,  the 
place  of  noises.  Strange  subterranean  sounds  commonly 
spoken  of  as  "Moodus  Noises"  have  been  heard  in  the 
region  from  time  immemorial.  The  town's  first 
minister,  writing  in  1729  says:  "As  to  earthquakes  I 
have  something  considerable  and  awful  to  tell.  Earth- 
quakes have  been  here,  and  nowhere  but  in  this  precinct. 


278        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

I  have  been  informed  that  in  this  place,  before  the  Eng- 
lish settlements,  the  Indians  drove  a  prodigious  trade 
at  worshipping  the  devil.  Many  years  past  an  old 
Indian  was  asked  the  reason  of  the  noises.  He  replied 
that  the  Indian's  god  was  very  angry  because  the  Eng- 
lishman's god  was  come  here. 

"There  are  no  eruptions  or  explosions,  but  sounds 
and  tremors  which  sometimes  are  very  fearful.  I  have 
myself  heard  eight  or  ten  sounds  successively,  imitating 
small  arms,  in  the  space  of  five  minutes.  I  suppose  I 
have  heard  several  hundred  of  these  within  twenty 
years.  Sometimes  we  have  heard  them  almost  every 
day.  Oftentimes  I  have  heard  them  coming  down  from 
the  north  imitating  slow  thunder,  until  the  sound  came 
near,  and  then  there  seemed  to  be  a  breaking,  like  the 
noise  of  a  cannon  shot,  which  shakes  the  houses  and  all 
that  is  in  them." 

A  citizen  of  a  century  later  declares  that  the  shock 
given  to  a  dwelling  "is  the  same  as  the  falling  of  logs 
on  the  floor,"  and  that  any  earthquake  felt  in  Con- 
necticut was  "far  more  violent  here  than  in  any  other 
place."  He  says  of  one  which  occurred  at  ten  o'clock 
in  the  night  of  May  i8th,  1791 :  "Here  the  concussion 
of  the  earth,  and  the  roaring  of  the  atmosphere  were 
most  tremendous.  Consternation  and  dread  filled  every 
house.  Many  chimneys  were  untopped  and  walls 
thrown  down.  It  was  a  night  to  be  remembered." 

I  inquired  particularly  about  these  noises  of  two  men 
who  were  sitting  on  the  post  office  piazza.  "We  still 


Shad  Time  on  the  Connecticut  279 

have  one  once  in  a  while,"  the  older  man  said.  "The 
ground  shakes  and  there's  a  noise  like  a  cannon  going 
off  or  a  rumblin'  like  thunder.  It  woke  me  up  once  in 
the  night  and  the  dishes  were  rattling  on  the  buttery 
shelves.  You  remember  old  Hardy,  don't  you,  Fred?" 

"Yes,"  the  younger  man  replied,  "he  gave  me  a 
horse-whipping  one  time  when  I  was  a  boy." 

"Well,"  the  older  man  resumed,  "he  tells  of  being 
at  work  on  the  medder  one  day  when  the  ground  shook 
so  strong  that  it  brought  the  cattle  down  on  their  knees. 
The  noises  are  made  by  gas  and  dead  air  exploding 
underground.  They  start  a  mile  and  a  half  from  here 
on  Cave  Hill.  Right  in  the  side  of  that  high  hill  there's 
a  cave  you  can  walk  into  for  about  forty  rods.  You 
can  keep  going  until  the  air  gets  so  stagnant  that  your 
light  goes  out.  Then  it's  time  for  you  to  start  back." 

"We  use  to  have  quite  a  famous  drum  corps  here," 
Fred  remarked,  "and  some  one  made  up  a  piece  of 
poetry  about  that  and  the  Moodus  earthquake.  The 
words  were: 

'A  man  from  Texas  tall  and  stout 
Stuck  up  his  nose  and  hollered  out, 
"Oh,  what  is  that  infernal  noise?" 
'Twas  nothing  but  the  Drum  Corps  boys.'  ' 

In  the  evening  when  I  returned  to  the  riverside  village 
the  fishermen  were  bestirring  themselves  in  prepara- 
tion for  the  night's  fishing,  but  there  was  much  con- 


280       Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

templation  and  talking  in  proportion  to  action  and 
accomplishment.  The  old  men  were  smoking  their 
pipes  and  the  young  men  were  puffing  cigarets,  and  all 
were  swearing  good-naturedly  with  every  breath.  They 
piled  the  nets  in  the  stern  of  the  boats,  put  in  tubs  and 
lanterns,  rubber  boots  and  extra  coats,  and  then  rowed 
their  boats  one  by  one  leisurely  away  down  the  river. 
Harry  and  his  grizzled  partner  were  the  last  to  leave. 
As  the  former  stepped  into  their  craft  he  said:  "We'll 
go  out  as  soon  as  the  clouds  git  through  showin'  red. 
The  gnats  are  bad  tonight.  Confound  the  little  rascals! 
They  git  into  your  hair  and  eyes  and  ears.  The  mos- 
quitoes, by  gosh!  are  out  too.  One  is  buzzing  around 
me  now.  I'll  shoot  him  on  the  wing  if  he  don't  keep 
away,"  and  the  old  man  brought  his  hands  together 
before  his  face  with  a  sudden  slap.  "But  there's  noth- 
ing we  have  here  to  compare  with  the  Spanish  Flies 
down  on  the  Amazon.  Mosquitoes  are  nowhere.  Bite 
—Jerusalem!  don't  say  a  word;  and  if  you  smash  'em 
they  raise  a  blister  on  you.  How  plain  you  c'n  hear 
them  toads  and  frogs  a-squawkin'  in  the  meadow  across 
the  river!  The  frogs  are  the  males,  and  the  toads  are 
the  females.  Well,  we'll  start  now." 

The  boat  slipped  away  through  the  dusk,  and  when 
I  looked  down  the  river  the  fishermen's  lights  dotted 
the  gloomy  water  as  far  as  I  could  see. 

NOTES. — One  can  travel  on  state  macadam  all  the  way  down  the 
valley  from  Hartford  to  Long  Island  Sound.  Perhaps  the  most 
satisfying  way  to  make  the  trip  is  by  water  in  a  motor  boat.  There 


Shad  Time  on  the  Connecticut  281 

is  much  of  interest  in  all  the  old  towns  along  shore.  Hartford  is 
especially  rich  in  attractions.  The  place  was  settled  in  1635,  and 
four  years  later  the  first  colonial  constitution  was  written  for  this 
Connecticut  colony.  A  tablet  marks  the  site  of  the  Charter  Oak  in 
the  hollow  of  which  the  document  was  hidden  in  1687  to  save  it 
from  being  seized  by  the  English.  Nearly  a  century  later  it  served 
as  the  model  for  the  United  States  Constitution.  The  Charter  Oak 
was  thirty-three  feet  in  circumference  when  it  was  blown  down  in 
1856.  The  tombstone  of  General  Putnam  can  be  seen  in  the  capitol, 
and  there  hangs  in  the  senate  chamber  the  celebrated  Stuart  portrait 
of  Washington,  bought  by  the  state  in  1800  for  less  than  eight  hun- 
dred dollars.  Hartford  was  for  many  years  the  residence  of  Harriet 
Beecher  Stowe  and  of  Mark  Twain. 


XV 


GLIMPSES    OF    LIFE 

IN   this   chapter   I   have   gathered   together    certain 
fragments  that  touch  on  various  picturesque,  typical, 
or  humorous  phases  of  New  England  life.     Some  of 
them  are  mere  anecdotes,  and  some  are  comparatively 
long  narratives  of  travel  experiences,  but  none  of  them 
fit  naturally  into  the  other  chapters. 

It  was  midsummer.  The  day  was  hot  and  muggy. 
I  was  walking  among  the  hills.  There  were  workers  in 
the  hayfields.  Boys  were  swimming  in  the  ponds  and 
in  the  deep  pools  of  the  streams.  Most  of  the  wayside 
homes  were  slicked  up  for  summer  boarders,  and  the 
boarders  themselves  in  their  semi-rural,  keep-cool 
costumes  were  lolling  about  on  piazzas  and  under  the 
shade  trees  and  loitering  along  the  highways  and  row- 
ing on  the  lakes. 

I  stopped  at  a  village  store  and  sat  down  to  rest. 
Presently  a  young  chap  came  in  and  bought  from  the 
clerk  fifty  cents'  worth  of  sugar,  a  package  of  fine-cut 
tobacco,  and  a  little  candy.  He  soon  left,  but  shortly 
afterward  returned  accompanied  by  his  father,  mother, 
and  sister.  The  man  spoke  angrily  to  the  clerk,  saying: 
"I  sent  here  for  ten  pounds  of  sugar,  and  the  package 


After  dandelion  greens 


Glimpse  of  Life  283 

my  boy  brought  back  was  so  small  I  weighed  it.  There 
was  only  eight  pounds." 

"That  was  fifty  cents'  worth — just  what  your  son 
asked  for,"  the  clerk  responded. 

"But  I  sent  money  for  ten  pounds,"  the  man  de- 
clared, and  then  turned  to  the  boy  and  said,  "You 
paid  it  to  him,  didn't  you,  Charlie?" 

"Ye-es,"  the  youngster  mumbled  with  averted  eyes. 

The  father  again  glared  at  the  clerk  and  said:  "You 
got  the  money.  Why  didn't  you  put  up  the  ten  pounds 
of  sugar?" 

"I  been  workin'  in  this  store  three  years,"  was  the 
clerk's  response,  "and  I  know  the  difference  between 
ten  pounds  of  sugar  and  fifty  cents'  worth  as  well  as 
any  one,  and  I  tell  you  I  gave  your  boy  just  what  he 
asked  for.  He  said  he  wanted  fifty  cents'  worth,  and 
a  bag  of  Little  Hatchet  Tobacco,  and  the  rest  in 
chocolates." 

"That's  a  likely  story!"  the  man  exclaimed. 
"Charlie  don't  use  tobacco." 

"I  don't  care  anything  about  that,"  was  the  clerk's 
comment.  "He  asked  for  it,  and  it  aint  the  first 
tobacco  he's  got  here  either." 

"Now,  Charlie,  don't  you  tell  no  lie,"  his  sister 
cautioned.  She  was  red-headed  and  keen-witted. 
"Did  you  get  that  tobacco,  and  are  you  makin'  cigarets 
on  the  sly?" 

Charlie's  head  sank  lower,  and  his  hesitating  affirma- 
tive was  scarcely  audible. 


284        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

"Well,  well,  we'll  see  about  this,"  the  father  said. 
He  blew  his  nose  violently  and  then  shuffled  out  of  the 
store  with  his  family  following,  and  I  watched  them  as 
they  walked  dejectedly  up  the  elm-shadowed  street 
toward  their  home. 

The  next  day  I  was  in  a  town  which  is  a  favorite 
resort  of  rich  city  people  and  there  I  hired  a  liveryman 
to  take  me  out  into  the  surrounding  country  that  I 
might  see  some  of  the  fine  estates  of  the  millionaires 
who  have  dotted  the  region  with  their  summer  palaces. 
As  we  passed  one  of  the  mansions  my  companion  said: 
"The  man  who  lives  there  sent  a  horse  to  town  one  day 
to  be  auctioned.  He  said  the  horse  was  all  right,  and  I 
bought  him,  but  on  the  way  home  it  ran  away  with  me. 
I  drove  back  to  the  auction  stable  and  told  the  auctioneer 
what  had  happened.  'Of  course  you  can  return  the 
horse,'  he  said.  'I  don't  know  what  the  man  could 
mean  by  guaranteeing  an  animal  like  that.' 

"The  morning  afterward  the  owner  met  me  at  the 
post  office.  'Well,  Dowd,'  he  said,  'you've  ruined  your 
reputation  as  a  horseman,  going  back  on  a  bargain  the 
way  you  did.' 

"'And  you've  ruined  your  reputation  as  an  honest 
man,  if  you  ever  had  one,'  I  told  him. 

"  'Don't  you  talk  like  that  to  me,'  he  growled. 

"I  went  out,  and  he  soon  followed  and  overtook  me 
on  the  sidewalk.  'You  mustn't  speak  to  me  again  in 
a  public  place  the  way  you  did  in  the  post  office,'  he 
said. 


Glimpse  of  Life  285 

"  'Where  do  you  want  me  to  speak  to  you  like  that — 
in  some  cellar?'  I  asked. 

"  'You  mustn't  at  all!'  he  exclaimed. 

"  'Very  well,'  I  said,  'then  don't  have  anything  to  say 
to  me,  you  lying  rascal!' 

"  'What!'  he  cried,  growing  red  in  the  face,  'you,  a 
common  stableman,  speaking  like  that  to  me,  a  gentle- 
man! I  won't  stand  it!' 

"He  made  a  rush  and  struck  at  me  with  his  fist, 
but  I  dodged  and  then  got  in  a  blow  myself  that  carried 
him  off  his  feet.  However,  he  was  quickly  up  and 
rushed  again  to  the  attack.  That  time  he  got  a  black  eye. 

"  'What  sort  of  a  country  is  this,'  he  shouted,  'that 
allows  a  stableman  to  strike  a  gentleman?  Don't  you 
do  so  any  more!' 

"  'Then  keep  your  hand  down,'  I  told  him. 

"He  saw  that  he  was  no  match  for  me,  and  he  turned 
away  muttering  vengeance.  But  he  never  did  anything. 
When  we  meet  I  look  at  him  squarely,  but  he  turns 
away  his  face." 

The  winter  had  been  an  unusually  snowy  one,  and 
the  spring  was  backward.  But  at  length  the  snow 
melted,  the  grass  thrust  up  valiant  spears  of  green,  the 
tree  buds  put  off  their  armor,  the  roads  dried,  and  I 
started  on  a  buckboard  journey  to  the  hill  country. 
No  sooner,  however,  did  I  leave  the  lowlands  than  I 
began  to  encounter  mud,  and  as  I  went  higher  I  found 
shreds  of  the  winter's  snowy  garments. 


286        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

The  sun  had  set  and  the  gloom  of  night  was  deepen- 
ing when  I  stopped  at  a  farmhouse  to  apply  for  shelter. 
I  went  to  the  barn  where  a  stable  door  was  open. 
Within  was  pitchy  darkness,  but  I  could  discern  the 
sound  of  milk  streaming  into  a  pail  and  I  ventured  a 
salutation  and  got  a  reply.  It  was  soon  arranged  that 
I  should  stay  for  the  night,  and  when  my  horse  had 
been  made  comfortable  the  farmer  led  the  way  to  the 
house.  The  family  sat  down  to  supper,  and  after  the 
man  had  asked  a  long  blessing  we  fell  to  eating  the  fried 
ham  and  potato  and  hot  biscuits  with  an  accompani- 
ment of  delicious  maple  syrup  made  on  the  place. 
Finally  there  was  pie.  The  man  polished  his  plate  with 
his  knife  in  the  time-honored  rustic  fashion.  When 
his  wife  spoke  of  him  to  any  one  else  she  called  him 
"he."  They  both  had  high-keyed,  gentle  nasal  voices. 
After  supper  I  joined  the  family  and  two  cats  and  two 
dogs  around  the  briskly  burning  fire  in  the  kitchen  stove 
and  chatted  away  the  evening. 

I  was  awakened  the  following  morning  by  a  lone 
bird  that  was  carolling  near  my  window.  When  I  was 
again  on  the  road  the  sun  shone  clear  in  the  east,  but 
the  air  was  keen,  the  ground  was  frozen  stiff,  and  the 
snow  was  hard  enough  to  walk  on.  Noon  came  and  I 
stopped  for  dinner  at  a  shabby  little  home  on  a  moun- 
tain top.  It  had  broken  windows  stuffed  with  rags,  the 
food  that  was  served  was  poor,  and  the  milk  tasted  of 
the  barnyard. 

Presently  I  resumed  my  journey.    The  rough  descend- 


Glimpse  of  Life  287 

ing  way  was  crossed  by  many  thank-you-ma'ams  and 
in  places  was  so  icy  that  the  horse  sat  down  and  slid. 
There  were  drifts  too.  Some  were  five  or  six  feet  deep 
and  I  should  have  been  shipwrecked  in  them  if  a  pas- 
sage had  not  been  opened  by  shovellers.  The  natives 
calculated  that  the  last  of  them  would  not  disappear 
before  June. 

In  the  midst  of  one  of  the  drifts  the  road  made  so 
sharp  a  turn  that  I  stopped  to  consider  the  situation, 
and  the  horse  took  advantage  of  the  opportunity  to  go 
to  sleep.  Finally  I  got  out,  lifted  around  the  back  end 
of  the  vehicle,  and  went  on.  Soon  I  found  that  the 
trail  led  me  from  the  drifted  highway  into  a  pasture 
waste  of  soggy  moss  through  which  many  wheels  had 
ploughed  a  wide  track  of  deep,  sticky  mud.  At  times 
I  thought  I  was  going  to  be  engulfed,  and  then  I  tried 
the  mossy  borders,  but  there,  though  the  wheels  cut  in 
less  deeply,  the  vehicle  pitched  about  so  over  the  hillocks 
that  I  was  glad  to  get  back  into  the  slough. 

Among  the  places  that  I  passed  through  on  this  trip 
were  Scrabbletown,  Fog  Hill,  Larrywog,  and  Podunk. 
As  to  the  last  an  Indian  named  Dunk  once  fell  off  a 
bridge  there  in  the  early  days  and  was  drowned.  The 
whites  spoke  of  him  as  "Poor  Dunk,"  and  the  bridge 
as  "Poor  Dunk's  Bridge,"  and  so  the  vicinity  in  time 
came  to  be  called  Podunk.  Then  there  was  Pilfershire, 
so  named  because  a  certain  set  of  fellows  there  was  not 
above  stealing,  and  it  was  a  common  saying  that  every- 
body who  passed  through  lost  something.  Gradually 


288        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

the  local  dwellers  reformed,  but  the  name  stuck,  much 
to  their  sorrow,  until,  in  desperation,  they  painted  a 
big  rock  near  the  highway  red  and  called  the  village 
Red  Rock. 

One  morning  I  started  to  climb  what  was  known  as 
"the  Notch  Road"  that  led  far  up  a  mountain,  but 
rain  began  to  fall,  and  when  I  came  out  on  an  exposed 
hill  the  wind  made  my  umbrella  flap  and  snap,  and  the 
rain  swept  past  in  sheets.  I  hastened  the  horse,  and 
when  I  arrived  at  a  group  of  farm  buildings  I  drove 
under  a  shed.  Then  I  went  to  the  house,  but  before  I 
could  rap  at  the  door  a  kind  old  lady  opened  it  and  said, 
"  Come  right  in  out  of  this  dreadful  storm." 

She  made  me  very  comfortable  by  the  kitchen  stove 
and  brought  a  pan  of  apples  from  the  cellar  with  which 
to  regale  me.  The  room  was  rather  primitive.  Its 
floor  was  much  worn,  and  there  were  wide  cracks  be- 
tween the  boards.  The  lower  half  of  the  walls  was 
sheathed,  and  the  upper  half  was  unpapered  plaster, 
a  good  deal  broken.  The  ceiling  was  very  grimy. 
Hooks  along  the  walls  served  for  hanging  up  towels,  a 
variety  of  clothing,  and  a  mop.  My  hostess  wore  a  big 
hood  on  her  head  and  a  cape  over  her  shoulders.  Pres- 
ently she  sat  down  in  a  chair  by  the  stove  and  churned 
in  a  tall  earthen  jar  with  an  up  and  down  paddle.  Every 
time  the  paddle  went  down  bits  of  cream  leaped  out 
till  the  floor  around  was  plentifully  decorated. 

After  the  butter  came  she  went  to  a  window,  wiped 
a  place  on  the  misted  glass,  and  peered  out.  "I'm 


On  the  border  of  the  lake 


Glimpse  of  Life  289 

expecting  my  son,"  she  said.  "He's  a  milkman.  He 
has  to  be  up  at  five  every  morning,  and  it's  a  slave's 
life.  Some  people  here  on  the  mounting  ship  their  milk 
to  Bostown.  Yas,  a  good  many  doos  that  way,  but  for 
years  we've  drawed  ourn  to  Millville  and  peddled  it. 
You've  been  to  Millville,  haven't  ye?  It's  no  great  of  a 
place,  but  we  have  a  stiddy  market  there  for  milk  and 
whatever  we  raise.  Lord!  I  didn't  think  this  'ere  rain 
would  last  so  long.  A  branch  has  blowed  off  the  ellum 
tree  yender  in  the  yard.  We  been  having  very  cold  sour 
weather  all  the  spring,  and  week  afore  last  we  had  a 
terrible  storm  of  wind  and  snow.  It  come  on  in  the  night. 
I  heared  the  blinds  slamming  and  got  up  and  fastened 
'em.  I  was  scairt,  and  the  house  rocked  so  I  didn't 
care  much  about  goin*  to  bed  ag'in.  That  there  was 
the  worst  storm  I  ever  see.  I  won't  forgit  it  very  soon." 

Her  son  came  a  little  later,  and  we  sat  down  to  eat 
dinner.  "How'd  you  make  out  today?"  the  old  woman 
said  to  the  milkman. 

"Well,"  he  responded,  "I'd  just  got  to  the  narrer 
place  in  the  road  in  the  holler  beyond  the  bridge  when 
that  mare  all  to  once  took  a  notion  to  cut  up  a  shine. 
I  swan!  she'll  kick  the  stars  right  out  of  the  sky.  I  been 
trainin'  the  critter  ever  since  she  was  a  colt,  but  she 
aint  never  learnt  nothin'  yet.  I  had  a  good  holt  of  the 
lines  or  she'd  have  busted  up  the  cart." 

"Just  think  of  that  now!"  the  old  woman  remarked 
to  me. 

"While   the   mare   was   rampagin',  along  come  Bill 


290        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

Case,"  the  son  resumed.  He'd  been  to  pastur'  with  his 
cows,  and  he  stopped  and  said, '  Tears  to  me  you'd  bet- 
ter git  a  new  horse.' 

"  'That's  a  good  idee,'  I  told  him,  'but  supposin'  a 
feller  ain't  got  the  spondulux  to  pay  for't?'  Let  me 
have  another  of  those  b'iled  potatoes.  I'm  considera- 
ble hungry.  I  bruised  my  foot  some,  and  I  guess  I'd 
better  rub  on  a  little  alcohol." 

"I've  got  a  bottle  of  it  somewheres,"  his  mother 
said,  "and  I'll  fetch  it  and  put  some  in  a  sasser  for  you. 
But  don't  rub  on  too  much  or  it'll  take  the  hide  right 
off." 

After  we  finished  eating,  and  the  bruised  foot  had 
been  attended  to,  the  milkman  said  to  me:  "Now  I'll 
rig  up  and  go  to  the  barn.  I've  got  a  game  rooster  out 
there  I'd  like  to  show  you." 

His  mother  turned  to  me  and  observed:  "It's  curi's 
how  much  he  thinks  of  that  there  rooster  of  hisn.  But 
boys  all  have  to  have  the  hen  fever  just  as  children  all 
have  to  have  croup  and  measles." 

"That's  what's  the  matter,"  her  son  commented. 
"Us  young  ones  are  a  little  bit  sp'ilt  when  it  comes  to 
chickens  and  game  roosters.  But  I  think  there's  money 
into  the  hen  business." 

"Before  you  go  out,"  the  old  woman  said,  "I  want 
you  to  fix  the  bedroom  door  so  it  will  stay  shut,  and  I 
wish  some  time  you'd  clean  out  the  chimley." 

The  son  got  a  hammer  and  gave  the  door  catch  a 
few  bangs,  and  then  we  went  to  the  barn  where  he 


One  of  the  old  folks  at  home 


Glimpse  of  Life  291 

showed  me  his  hens.  "  Some  on  'em  are  about  as  hand- 
some birds  as  you  could  find,"  he  affirmed.  "There's 
the  rooster  I  was  tellin*  you  about.  He  was  raised  on 
my  sister's  place,  but  her  and  her  husband  didn't  care 
much  for  so  fancy  a  breed,  and  they  let  me  have  him." 

While  I  was  enjoying  the  attractions  of  the  barn  the 
weather  took  a  turn  for  the  better  and  the  rain  ceased 
falling.  Yet  the  valleys  continued  misty,  the  mountain 
tops  were  hidden  by  clouds,  and  the  wind  rattled  and 
surged  around  unceasingly.  It  was  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon.  I  would  gladly  have  lodged  with  the  milk- 
man that  night,  but  could  not  because  all  the  extra 
bedticks  were  in  the  wash.  However,  he  was  sure  I 
could  get  kept  at  the  second  house  up  the  road  toward 
the  notch. 

I  drove  on  until  I  came  to  the  house  that  had  been 
recommended.  A  man  was  sawing  wood  by  the  road- 
side. He  said :  "  I'd  be  glad  to  keep  you  if  I  had  a  place 
for  your  horse.  I'm  awfully  sorry,  but  I've  got  the 
barn  floor  torn  up.  There  are  three  brothers  who  live 
up  the  road — mighty  nice  folks  too.  I  know  very  well 
you  can  get  kept  there." 

I  went  on.  At  the  home  of  the  three  brothers  two  of 
them  came  out  on  the  piazza  in  response  to  my  knock. 
But  their  buildings  were  full  of  stock,  and  they  had  put 
four  cosset  sheep  in  the  woodshed  because  they  had  no 
other  place  for  them.  "There's  just  one  more  house 
up  the  road,"  they  said.  "You  try  there  and  if  they 
say  'No,'  come  back  here  and  we'll  take  care  of  you 


292        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

somehow  even  if  we  have  to  keep  your  horse  in  the 
parlor." 

I  wended  my  way  upward  and  two  dogs  followed  me 
barking  savagely  until  they  heard  a  hound  baying  on 
the  mountain.  Then  they  stopped  and  gave  their 
attention  to  him.  The  people  at  the  final  house  up 
among  the  fog-veiled  heights  gave  me  the  shelter  I  had 
so  long  sought,  and  when  morning  came,  breezy  and 
sunlit,  and  I  looked  out  and  saw  how  charming  the 
spot  was  with  its  wild  mountain  environment  I  felt 
sufficiently  rewarded  for  my  strenuous  experiences  of 
the  previous  day. 

I  once  had  occasion  to  spend  some  time  in  a  good- 
sized  market-town  where  I  boarded  with  the  Dawsons. 
The  family  consisted  of  Mr.  Dawson,  a  frank  and 
capable  man  of  middle  age,  his  wife,  fat  and,  as  a  rule, 
amiable,  with  a  liking  for  assuming  little  airs  of  pro- 
priety, surprise,  sorrow,  and  other  emotions,  and  a  son, 
Julian,  aged  fifteen,  who  resembled  his  mother  in  his 
appearance  and  characteristics  except  that  he  had 
none  of  her  sentimentality. 

Mrs.  Dawson  was  quite  religious  when  she  happened 
to  think  of  it.  In  commenting  on  the  use  of  tobacco 
she  declared  that  it  was  bad  for  the  stomach  and  added 
affectingly,  "We  are  abusing  the  gift  our  Heavenly 
Father  has  given  us."  The  gift  referred  to  was  the 
stomach,  not  the  tobacco. 

She  taught  in  the  Baptist  Sunday-school,  and  she 


Glimpse  of  Life  293 

was  cocksure  that  her  particular  brand  of  religion  had 
all  the  right  and  sense  there  was.  As  to  the  Unitarians 
she  said:  "They  don't  have  prayer-meetings.  Ah! 
they  think  they  can  gain  heaven  without  working  for 
it,  but  I  don't  believe  in  this  lolling  into  heaven  on  a 
hammock,  and  I  don't  take  any  stock  in  their  idea  that 
we  shall  all  be  saved  in  the  end.  If  that  was  so  what 
is  the  use  of  trying  to  be  good  when  it  don't  make  any 
difference?  People  ask  me  if  I  could  be  satisfied  in  the 
next  world  if  my  husband  shouldn't  be  saved.  'Per- 
fectly, perfectly!'  I  tell  'em.  I'd  know  that  whatever 
had  been  done  was  just.  He'd  had  every  opportunity 
here  to  see  the  light  and  be  a  good  Christian,  and  if  he 
hadn't  done  well  it  was  his  own  fault." 

One  evening  we  all  got  ready  to  go  to  the  church  to  a 
Harvest  Festival.  Julian  was  to  go  early  and  act  as 
usher,  but  he  was  "sassy"  to  his  mother,  and  his  father 
sternly  told  him  he  would  take  that  sort  of  nonsense 
out  of  him,  and  he  might  just  sit  down  and  wait  for  the 
rest  of  us.  He  pouted  and  swaggered,  threw  off  his 
hat,  his  coat,  and  his  cuffs,  flounced  into  a  chair,  and 
picked  up  a  book  which  he  pretended  to  read.  When  we 
were  ready  he  announced  that  he  was  not  going,  and  a 
dispute  ensued  with  his  father  during  which  Mrs. 
Dawson  preserved  the  air  of  a  long-suffering  parent. 
Julian  finally  lagged  along  behind  and  was  marched 
into  the  family  pew. 

After  the  meeting,  as  I  was  walking  home,  Mrs. 
Dawson  asked  me  if  I  wore  false  teeth.  I  think  she 


294        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

was  not  much  interested  to  know  whether  I  did  or  not, 
but  was  making  an  opportunity  to  tell  the  story  of  her 
own,  which  she  did  at  considerable  length.  Just  as 
she  concluded  she  observed  a  shooting  star  and  said: 
"When  I  was  a  little  girl  I  used  to  believe  that  if  I  saw 
a  shooting  star  and  made  a  wish  without  speaking  to 
any  one  of  it  afterward  that  wish  would  come  true.  I 
don't  know  but  it's  foolish;  and  yet  I  sometimes  try 
that  even  now." 

On  one  occasion  she  overheard  Julian  remark, 
"  'Taint  no  use." 

"How  you  talk!"  she  exclaimed,  much  scandalized. 
"There's  no  such  word  in  the  English  language  as 
'taint."  Then  addressing  me  she  added,  "I  do  wish 
I  could  learn  my  boy  to  talk  as  if  he'd  been  to  school." 
She  turned  again  to  Julian  and  said,  "I  want  you  to  go 
to  the  post  office,  and  don't  you  make  no  stop  for 
nobody  on  the  way." 

He  was  often  a  great  trial  to  her,  and  so  was  her 
husband.  If  she  and  Mr.  Dawson  both  had  a  hand  in 
doing  a  thing  that  went  wrong  she  promptly  packed 
all  the  blame  on  him,  and  she  often  told  him  that  their 
affairs  would  be  in  a  very  bad  way  if  it  wasn't  for  her. 
It  was  her  firm  belief  that  she  had  a  monopoly  of  all 
the  virtues  and  she  could  not  understand  his  irritation 
at  her  attitude  of  saintly  patience  toward  his  failings. 

Once  there  was  a  stair  carpet  to  be  put  down.  Mr. 
Dawson  spent  an  hour  or  two  at  the  job,  but  when  the 
carpet  was  down  his  wife  found  he  had  stretched  it  a 


Glimpse  of  Life  295 

little  tighter  than  before  so  that  on  the  bottom  stair  a 
crease  showed  somewhat  out  of  place.  She  made  a 
series  of  unpleasant  remarks  on  his  stupidity  and  lacks 
in  general,  and  nothing  would  do  but  that  carpet  must 
be  put  down  anew.  So  Mr.  Dawson  took  it  up  and 
started  the  task  again.  But  this  time  he  would  not 
drive  a  single  tack  until  Mrs.  Dawson  had  indicated 
the  place  for  it.  At  each  step  he  wanted  to  have  her 
adjust  the  carpet  to  suit  herself,  and  she  found  the 
labor  quite  wearing.  To  cap  the  climax,  when  they  got 
to  the  bottom,  the  carpet  hung  three  inches  short  of 
the  floor.  Mr.  Dawson  wouldn't  do  the  work  over 
again,  and  there  the  carpet  hung — a  grand  object 
lesson. 

A  man  in  a  remote  country  town,  attracted  by  the 
celebrity  of  William  Cullen  Bryant,  came  to  see  him 
at  his  summer  home  in  Cummington,  Massachusetts. 
After  meeting  and  talking  with  him  his  awe  gradually 
wore  off,  and  he  said,  "Why,  I  don't  see  that  you  look 
any  different  from  other  men;  and  yet  I  s'pose  some 
people  would  give  as  much  to  see  you  as  they  would 
to  see  a  bear." 

When  old  Doctor  Hillman  called  on  a  patient  and 
left  some  medicine  he'd  say:  "If  the  dose  I've  pre- 
scribed doesn't  have  any  effect  take  a  double  dose. 
Then  you'll  either  be  better  or  worse,  or  you'll  be  about 
the  same." 


296        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

"Everybody  had  a  nickname  when  I  went  to  school. 
There  was  Codfish,  and  Boots,  and  Old  Grimes,  and  we 
called  Dave  Kingman,  whose  father  was  a  deacon, 
'  Little  Deacon/  One  of  the  girls,  who  afterward  became 
a  famous  writer,  we  called  Tabby. 

"We  had  a  fireplace  in  the  schoolhouse  until  about 
1870.  If  the  supply  of  wood  give  out  the  boys  would  go 
into  the  woodland  close  by  and  knock  some  stumps  to 
pieces  and  bring  'em  in.  There  was  considerable  com- 
plaint of  a  poor  fire,  and  one  examination  day  at  the 
end  of  the  winter  term  the  boys  said  they  would  make 
it  hot  enough  for  once.  So  they  filled  up  the  fireplace 
and  chimney  to  the  top.  A  person  couldn't  stay  within 
ten  feet  of  that  fire,  and  we  had  to  keep  putting  on  snow 
around  the  chimney  to  prevent  the  building  from  burn- 
ing down. 

"I  went  to  school  in  the  Slab  City  district.  There 
was  a  good-sized  brook  near  the  schoolhouse,  and  we 
skated  and  slid  on  it  in  winter  and  paddled  in  it  and 
made  rafts  to  float  around  on  in  summer,  and  we  were 
always  breaking  through  the  ice  or  tumbling  into  the 
water.  The  nearest  district  to  ours  was  one  we  called 
'Babylon.'  A  lot  of  overgrown  fellers  went  to  the 
school  there,  and  they  turned  out  their  teacher — picked 
him  up  and  set  him  and  all  his  traps  outdoors.  After 
that  they  come  up  and  offered  to  turn  ourn  out.  He 
wa'n't  good  for  nothin',  but  we  didn't  propose  to  have 
any  outsiders  interfering.  So  we  pitched  in  and  give 
those  Babylon  fellers  the  worst  drubbing  they  ever  got 


Glimpse  of  Life  297 

and  drove  'em  way  down  over  a  ridge  that  was  known 
as  'the  Backbone.' 

"Our  teacher  was  kind  of  an  ugly  cud.  He  had  a 
curious  way  of  taking  the  kinks  out  of  the  little  runts. 
He'd  grab  'em  by  the  collars  and  crack  their  heads 
together.  How  he  would  yank  'em  round! 

"One  recess  I  got  into  trouble  with  Josh  Harris.  He 
was  always  forever  tryin'  to  trip  up  some  one,  and 
he  tried  it  on  me.  That  kind  o'  raised  my  Ebenezer  a 
little.  We  went  at  each  other,  and  the  teacher  come  to 
the  door,  and  says:  'Stop  thar,  both  of  ye!  Who 
begun  this  row?' 

"  'Josh  did,'  says  I. 

"But  Josh  started  makin'  complaints  of  me,  and  the 
teacher  says,  'Yew  two  come  into  the  schoolhouse.' 

"We  went  in,  and  he  gave  us  each  a  switch  and  told 
us  to  lick  jackets.  Josh  blinked  at  me  to  have  me  hit 
easy,  but  I  wouldn't.  After  school  I  felt  the  welts  on 
his  legs,  and  they  stood  right  up  just  like  a  wash- 
board. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  one  thing  I  heard  at  that  school. 
The  teacher  asked  in  the  geography  lesson,  'What  are 
the  principal  fruits  of  the  West  Indies?' 

"  'Pie-apples  and  bandages,'  one  of  the  boys  says." 

"We  always  used  to  take  Harper's  Weekly.  A  crazy 
man  lived  in  our  family,  and  he'd  read  that  Harper's 
Weekly  and  look  at  the  pictures  and  seem  to  get  a  great 
deal  of  comfort  out  of  it.  But  we  stopped  it  because  it 


298        Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

began  to  caricature  Charles  Sumner.    The  crazy  man 
didn't  live  long  after  that." 

"It  ain't  much  trouble  for  me  to  take  care  of  my 
family,"  the  hired  man  said.  "I  git  'em  all  under  cover 
every  time  I  put  on  my  hat." 

"One  day  Uncle  Quin  was  going  to  town  and  Jerry 
Peters  asked  him  to  bring  back  a  bottle  of  rum  for  him. 
Uncle  Quin,  he  got  the  rum,  and  when  he  came  home 
he  set  it  in  his  cellar-way  right  side  of  a  bottle  of  kero- 
sene. By  and  by  Jerry  come  after  the  rum  and  Uncle 
Quin  give  him  the  wrong  bottle  and  Jerry  took  it  home. 
Later  Uncle  Quin  discovered  his  mistake.  He  was 
afraid  the  kerosene  would  poison  any  one  who  drank  it, 
and  he  was  scairt  most  to  death.  So  he  hitched  up  his 
horse  and  put  him  right  through  till  he  got  to  Jerry's 
house.  Jerry  had  taken  a  good  horn  of  the  kerosene, 
and  he  was  in  bed,  but  declared  he  was  all  right  enough. 

"  'Wai,  I  swear  to  ye!'  Uncle  Quin  says,  much 
relieved,  'now,  if  ye'll  only  swallow  a  wick  ye'll  have  a 
lamp  all  complete.'  * 

"Parson  Briggs  was  a  little  stub  of  a  fellow,  but  he 
had  long  legs  that  opened  up  like  a  pair  of  tongs  almost 
to  his  brain.  He's  gone  to  heaven  now.  A  grandson 
of  his  is  in  Amherst  College.  I  don't  know  where  he'll 
go  to." 

"Harry  Taylor  has  got  to  be  quite  a  smoker  for  a 
young  fellow.  I  met  him  the  other  evening  on  the 


Glimpse  of  Life  299 

road,  and  he  had  a  pipe  in  his  mouth  with  a  bowl  as  big 
as  a  cocoanut.  It  was  so  large  it  hid  his  face  and  I 
didn't  know  what  was  coming  at  first.  A  cloud  of 
smoke  poured  out  and  streamed  away  behind,  and  he 
looked  like  some  sort  of  steam  engine  running  loose." 

"I  think  a  man  ought  to  marry  a  woman  that  is 
cheerful  and  can  talk  easy  and  joke  and  say  pleasant 
things  to  him.  There  ain't  much  fun  in  coming  in  after 
a  hard  day  outdoors  and  meeting  a  woman  with  a  face 
like  a  hoe-handle,  who  goes  about  her  work  as  if  she'd 
lost  all  her  friends." 


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CHARLESTON:    THE  PLACE  AND  THE  PEOPLE 

By  Mrs.  St.  Julien  Ravenel 

"Every  page  is  pregnant  with  interesting  fact  and  suggestion" 

— Philadelphia  Public  Ledger 

PHILADELPHIA:    THE  PLACE  AND  THE  PEOPLE 

By  Agnes  Repplier 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


Labrador:  The  Country  and  the  People 

BY  WILFRED  T.  GRENFELL,  C.M.G.,  M.R.C.S.,  M.D.,  (OxoN.) 

The  Celebrated  Missionary  Doctor  of  the  Artie  and  others 

New  and  enlarged  edition,  beautifully  and  profusely  illustrated. 

Decorated  cloth,  Gilt  tops,  $2.50  net;  postpaid,  $2.72 

Labrador  is,  relatively  speaking,  an  unknown  land.  Its  great  natural 
resources,  the  wonderful  awe-inspiring  grandeur  of  its  rugged  scenery  with 
mountains  of  fantastic  architecture  and  the  delicate  and  fascinating  colors 
of  Arctic  auroras  playing  over  all, — these  are  things  of  which  the  vast  ma- 
jority of  readers  know  nothing.  Dr.  Grenfell,  who  has  lived  long  in  this 
region,  writes  of  the  natural  beauties  of  the  country  as  well  as  the  future  of 
Labrador  and  the  relation  of  its  rapid  development  to  the  North  American 
Continent. 


The  Heart  of  Gaspe 

SKETCHES  IN  THE  GULF  OF  ST.  LAWRENCE 

BY  JOHN  MASON  CLARKE 
Illustrated  cloth,  8vo,  $2.00  net;  postpaid,  $2.18 

Gaspe,  one  of  the  most  romantic  spots  left  in  America,  is  the  latest 
discovery  of  the  tourist  in  search  of  the  picturesque.  This  bit  of  seacoast 
in  the  Peninsula  of  Eastern  Quebec  is  remarkable  for  its  scenery,  its  history 
and  its  people.  Its  story  is  told  and  its  beauties  described  in  this  book  by 
one  who  knows  Gaspe  from  years  of  acquaintance  and  exploration. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


New  Books  of  Travel,  Adventure  and  Description 


My  Life  with  the  Eskimos 

BY  VILHJALMUR  STEFANSSON 

Illustrated  with  half-tone  reproductions  of  photographs  taken  by  the  author 
and  others.     Decorated  cloth,  8vo.     Preparing. 

A  fascinating  book  of  description  and  adventure  has  been 
written  by  the  famous  traveler  and  explorer,  who  has  passed 
years  of  his  life  within  the  Artie  Circle.  Mr.  Stefansson 
has  had  a  vast  amount  of  material  upon  which  to  draw,  and 
he  has  made  his  selection  wisely.  He  has  lived  with  the  Es- 
kimos for  long  periods;  he  knows  their  language;  he  has 
subsisted  on  their  food;  he  has  heard  their  legends;  he  has 
seen  them  in  their  daily  lives  as  have  few  explorers.  Con- 
sequently his  remarks  about  this  primitive  and  matter-of- 
fact  people  are  shrewd,  true,  and  frequently  amusing.  The 
experiences  and  tales  which  he  recounts,  mirroring  the  hard- 
ships and  the  inspirations  of  life  in  a  fearful  but  wonderful 
country,  compose  a  work  quite  the  most  absorbing  on  it  that 
has  ever  been  published. 

The  Barbary  Coast 

BY  ALBERT  EDWARDS 
Author  of  "Panama,"  "Comrade  Yetta,"  etc. 

With  many  illustrations.     Decorated  cloth,  I2mo.     Preparing. 

Albert  Edward's  "Panama:  The  Canal,  the  Country,  and 
the  People"  has  gone  into  many  editions  and  received  wide 
and  favorable  comment.  Much  may,  therefore,  be  expected 
of  this  new  descriptive  volume,  in  which  Mr.  Edwards  relates 
some  of  his  remarkable  and  always  interesting  experiences  in 
the  states  of  northern  Africa.  Mr.  Edwards  does  not  write 
with  a  history  or  a  book  at  his  elbow;  what  he  says  does  not 
come  to  the  reader  from  a  second-hand  knowledge.  He  has 
been  in  Africa  himself  and  he  writes  out  of  his  own  life. 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last 
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II  I!   II      I  II"  M  Illlll  IIH  Illl  Mil  111  III  Illl  ""  i«'«L'^! 

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UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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